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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26039749">today we are all demons</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/heathenpesticide/pseuds/heathenpesticide'>heathenpesticide</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hamilton - Miranda</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Canon Era, Canon-Typical Violence, Charles Lee Being a Dick, Charles Lee/Samuel Seabury adjacent I guess?, Enemies to Lovers, Flashbacks, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Masturbation, Past Abuse, Period Typical Attitudes, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Power Dynamics, Prisoner of War, Revenge, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Sickfic, Survivor Guilt, Torture, War Crimes</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 08:35:36</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>60,061</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26039749</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/heathenpesticide/pseuds/heathenpesticide</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Distantly, between the vises of so many different layers of agony, Lee registers the peculiar warmth of the doctor's palm against his back. He must have warmed his hands over the fire before tending to Lee's wound, because they're no longer chilled by the frigid open air. It's much more pleasant now, less bracing. Fingertips fitted into the dips of his spine, a small touch that anchors him to sanity. It's light but steadying, a trivial feeling that Lee latches onto because it's the only thing in his world right now that doesn't hurt.</p><p>The notion has him reeling - he can't remember the last time he was touched gently, has to dig through memories from before Monmouth, before his time as a prisoner of war, even. He thinks of the prostitute he'd bedded in that tavern the night General Cornwallis learned of his whereabouts and arranged for his capture; even she hadn't been this delicate with him.</p><p>***</p><p>A shamelessly self-indulgent fic that combines my favorite tropes of "nursing back to health" and "look at this gruff, boorish, aggressive, tough man..........please hurt him" and I apologize for nothing</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Charles Lee/Other(s), Charles Lee/that doctor from the duel</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>23</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Contrition</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>chapter warnings: brief period-typical ableist language, accidental/implied suicide baiting</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"I did everything right."</p><p>The winter sky is too bright this early in the morning, stark grey-white as it blinks through the skeletal branches overhead. Periodically, a kaleidoscope of actual sunlight breaks through the cloud cover, blinding him and making him woozy in his blood-loss haze of consciousness. It's disorienting, makes him nauseous, but he swallows against it and squints his eyes shut. </p><p>Strong hands are clamping down on his side, applying cruel pressure to the throbbing hole there. Another hand pins his shoulder down - it's Burr, much gentler than the hands of the doctor - and Lee realizes he's been impulsively struggling against the people presumably here to help him. He's suddenly acutely aware of the sunburst of pain in his side, those hands pressing down on him as though to torture. The adrenaline has worn off finally and he can feel the heat of his own blood coursing out of him, surging with each beat of his heart. </p><p>Fragmented memories reoccur to him in his disoriented haze, like bubbles surfacing on a pond; so vivid in his confusion that he forgets where and when he is, like he's reliving all the moments that brought him to this particular point in time.</p><p>Washington's condescending rebukes, the confused shouts of Lee's men, that <em>bullshit </em>court-martial, the challenge from Laurens, Hamilton's dismissive reasoning for the confrontation: </p><p><em>How many men died because Lee was inexperienced and ruinous</em> -</p><p>Inexperienced and ruinous! <em>Honestly</em>? </p><p>Coming from that - that - undisciplined <em>peasant </em>who made a name for himself by shooting his mouth off. Hamilton was more than acquainted with Lee's military career and accomplishments, so it was especially rich he'd use those words, specifically. </p><p>"I did everything right," Lee says again, his voice hoarse and reedy, almost imperceptible in the howling wind. Christ, it's cold. Exacerbates the pain in his side. It would seem the damage is worse than he initially thought.</p><p>Somewhere on the fringes of his awareness, he barely registers Burr's voice:  "This should never have happened. This is absurd! How does anyone agree to such <em>absolute barbarism</em>." </p><p>His voice is tight; Burr's panic is palpable beneath that carefully constructed veneer of ambiguity he always hides behind. </p><p>If Lee had the energy, he'd be angry; such a cheap sentiment coming from the man who acquiesced at the most tepid of challenges. Burr didn't even put forth an effort to defend him. Not that Lee had any intention of letting the dispute die; that court-martial was bogus, a cheap political ploy. Some stupid spectacle to preserve Washington's ego while publicly humiliating Lee. Lee's grievances had been legitimate and reasonable. These colonist amateurs were always so obsessed with decorum that they had absolutely no respect for <em>efficacy</em>.</p><p>All things considered, he expected the duel to end one of two ways - he either dropped Laurens on the first shot, a symbolic vindication of Lee's righteousness; or Lee didn't walk away from the dueling ground. </p><p>It's a cosmic slap in the face that of all the opportunities he's had throughout his extravagant military career to die valiantly in battle, he's just squandered the very last possibility he might ever have to make that a reality. </p><p>The pain in his side spikes with his blood pressure, heart knocking violently against his rib cage; there it is, finally - that energy to be angry.</p><p>He struggles against the hands restraining him, tries to raise up before getting firmly shoved back down. It's the doctor - Burr would never use that degree of force with him. </p><p>"You had no right - " Lee pants, already out of breath. He swallows down several gasps of biting cold air before trying again: "You had no right to speak for me! I didn't yield! <em>I didn't yield!</em> There could have - " he pauses, huffs twice more, " - could have been a second shot!"</p><p>There's an extended silence, and though Lee's vision is blurred, he can practically <em>feel </em>Burr and the doctor exchanging a concerned look. </p><p>Burr's strained voice cuts through the silence:  "Why is he bleeding so much?! I thought the damage was superficial." </p><p>It's barely perceptible, but Lee doesn't miss the way the pitch of Burr's voice hitches up. He's panicking. So accustomed to burying his emotions that he can barely hold it together the first moment he's under duress. So sloppy. </p><p>"Aren't you applying pressure?" Burr presses.</p><p>"<em>Of course I am</em>," the doctor snaps, making no attempt to hide how insulted he is at the challenge. Then he curses under his breath, and Lee feels a hand slide under his hip.</p><p>"Help me get him onto his side," the doctor says. </p><p>"Why - "</p><p>"<em>Just do it</em>." An angry rebuke borne of urgency. Any time a doctor snaps at someone like that, it's bad.</p><p>The next moment is a blinding white-hot flash of agony as he's tilted onto his side, stars clouding his vision, a coarse scream clawing its way up his throat. His scream is cut off as he chokes against that rising disturbance again, he absolutely <em>will not</em> vomit, he <em>won't</em> - meanwhile, Burr is speaking softly to him, but Lee can't make out the words. Burr's voice shakes, he's attempting to sound soothing, probably some trite platitude. Careful fingers smooth the curtain of dark hair back from Lee's brow, and something about the gesture angers him. It's condescending, <em>insulting </em>that Burr assumes he needs to be comforted like some swooning damsel.</p><p>Even if he actually does, a little bit.</p><p>Somewhere above him, he hears the doctor swear under his breath again. Lee's coat is drawn back, he thinks someone is cutting through the fabric of the clothes sticking to him, peeling it away from the blood matted to his flesh. Some unbidden, pitiful sound comes out of him at the squelch of caked blood, the uncomfortable tender feeling of bitter winter air touching his exposed wound. He doesn't have the energy for another scream, so instead there's just a pathetic mewl, almost a sob.</p><p>"Well, at least I won't need to extract the bullet," the doctor says darkly.</p><p>Lee immediately understands the implication of this. <em>Exit wound</em>.</p><p>This time, he actually does vomit. It's fortunate he's on his side. </p><p>If Burr is offended by it, he makes no indication. Just produces a handkerchief from his pocket, dabs at Lee's mouth and cheek. He can hear Burr's frantic breathing just above his own shallow, erratic breaths, can feel the tremor in the hand that holds the handkerchief to his face. It's artfully contained, subtle, but Burr allows himself the softest sound of helpless grief.</p><p>"Is that survivable?" he asks, his voice small.</p><p>Lee groans as icy fingers dance around the edge of the certainly much larger wound in his back and he instinctively cringes away, the movement so abrupt that it's almost violent. The doctor steadies him with a strong hand on his hip. </p><p>"Please - " Lee starts, but clenches his teeth the moment he realizes how pathetic he sounds, begging like this.</p><p>"It doesn't seem to have hit any of his organs, fortunately. He'll lose a lot of blood. It will be vulnerable to infection."</p><p>"That doesn't answer my question," Burr says sharply, just a hint of annoyance creeping into his tone. It's an alien sound, coming from him. He's losing it, coming apart at the seams. </p><p>There's a pronounced silence from the doctor.</p><p>Lee's vision clears a little, and he lifts his eyes upward, searching for reassurance from Burr. The man looks almost angelic like this, a stunning relief of satiny brown skin against a halo of soft silvery sky above him. His expression is poised, though his eyes shift nervously as they inspect Lee's face. </p><p>Lee's anger at him dissipates a little; he actually feels a little sorry for Burr now. He had always been so unprepared for something like this. Handsome, composed, perfect, ambivalent, docile Burr. His ambition and his compassion constantly at war with one another. <em>It's such a tremendous weakness</em>, Lee thinks. <em>It will be his undoing, one day</em>. </p><p>"Doctor Jones?" Burr urges, and this time he doesn't even attempt to modulate his voice as it shoots up an octave. </p><p>Lee laughs despite his best efforts to contain it, and as expected, it's torture. "I'm dying," he muses aloud. His laughter is punctuated by a yelp of pain. Maybe this <em>will </em>kill him, after all.</p><p>"No you're not," the doctor grumbles, and he sounds reassuringly assertive, even if underscored by annoyance. </p><p>He's eased onto his back again, wincing as the carriage is jostled by every bump in the road. Philadelphia's streets are incredibly capricious, Benjamin Franklin's ambitious endeavors to have them paved notwithstanding. The growing city is always in a perpetual state of construction, it seems; some of the streets are composed of dirt and riddled with potholes - a filthy quagmire in wet weather - others are neatly cobbled in stone. The erratic terrain is especially cruel to someone who has just been shot, it turns out.</p><p>Elegant fingers smooth Lee's hair back again, and it's such a compulsive movement that Lee suspects Burr is doing it more to comfort <em>himself</em>. The doctor mumbles something that sounds like "<em>Almost there</em>" and Lee just closes his eyes, tips back into the vertigo of impending unconsciousness. It's been creeping up on him since they dragged him from the dueling ground, an increasing rush in his ears, the dizzying lethargy of blood loss and pain and terror.</p><p><em>He did everything right</em>.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> <b>[somewhere in the Allegheny Mountains; 1755]</b></em>
</p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>Lee suspects this expedition will fail. It's poorly prepared, poorly executed, poorly staffed. Hubris motivates his superior officers, which is unfortunate because even as young and fresh as he is, he can spot the flaws in their endeavors. That in itself is a preamble to his natural aptitude as a military strategist, but to Lee, it's just common sense.</p>
  <p>He's not here for the victory, anyway; his military career has just begun. He wanted to see the colonies, wanted to see something new, to pioneer new social and political experiments. He's young and reckless, espouses that arrogant expectation of immortality seen in most men his age. He's consumed with wanderlust. He's just excited to be here, even if he knows this particular endeavor is a lost cause.</p>
  <p>General Braddock, on the other hand, is old, primitive, caustic, ill-tempered, sloppy. His impatience and impulsiveness are tactical weak points, but Lee values the learning experience. He's already established his own reputation as a loose cannon, but next to Braddock, Lee comes off as benign as a British coquette.</p>
  <p>These mountains pose a significant barrier to their troops that Braddock had not anticipated. The supply wagons and cannons have already struggled to clear the terrain. So far it's been a disaster; too many valuable supplies abandoned due to broken equipment and broken men. Lee's impatience has grown, and he's grateful that his own reputation has earned him a solo scouting position ahead of the rest of the 44th Regiment. He hates being slowed down by untrained, undisciplined novices.</p>
  <p>Flanked on either side by his twin greyhounds, Lee walks with the graceful caution of a soldier attuned to stealth. The dogs are prized purebreds gifted to him by one of his old mentors from the Swiss military school he'd called home prior to this assignment. They answer only to him, and then only to German commands. He's rarely seen without them at his side. He prefers them to his human counterparts; the dogs are loyal, will never betray him or question him. They're more reliable than any colleague he's ever had.</p>
  <p>Moist pine needles cushion his footfalls, his soft-soled leather boots leaving almost no trace of his presence. At least Braddock wasn't stupid enough to attempt this attack in winter - the weather alone would have killed them all. The forest floor springs back under every footstep, the ground too flexible to leave tracks for very long. </p>
  <p>Wind rustles through the tree canopy, the only sound in the yawning emptiness. Not even the flutter of bird wings, no trace of wildlife. That alone is a sure sign of -</p>
  <p>One of his dogs stops in mid-step, nose curiously lifting to the air.</p>
  <p>Lee follows suit, turning his nose up to the wind, nostrils flaring as he inhales. He can smell them, too. The staleness of unwashed flesh, exacerbated by the humidity. Enemy forces are waiting to ambush them up ahead, and he slows to a stop as his dogs wait for a command. </p>
  <p><em>They'll be in the trees</em>, Lee thinks, and as though an omen of this prediction, a leaf flutters down and catches in the fringe of his epaulet. He smiles, dismissively flicking the leaf from his shoulder as he readies his rifle.</p>
  <p>"<em>Jagt</em>!" he barks, a soft, staccato command disrupting the quiet.</p>
  <p>The dogs break into a sprint, zig-zagging ahead to disorient potential enemies lining up a shot, just as he'd trained them. It's a formidable sight; no one wants to be on the receiving end of those dogs charging a target.</p>
  <p>It's a mere distraction, anyhow; the bulk of the enemy forces waiting for Braddock's vanguard will be some miles ahead. Lee's intention was to throw off the scouts spying on him from the trees. Likely they'll have orders to stand down; they're not here to attack, just to observe and relay intelligence back to their superiors.</p>
  <p>Unfortunate that they'll never make it back to complete that objective.</p>
  <p>The crack of a tree branch alerts Lee to the location of one of them. The enemy will instinctively follow the trajectory of the dogs, preoccupied with the anxiety of them potentially picking up his scent. </p>
  <p>Lee responds lightning-quick, the reflexes of superior training and instinct. It's just a shadow among the dark canopy of trees, but the movement is enough - he fires, and moments later a body crashes to the ground with a gratifying <em>whump</em>. Ah, and it's perfect - the scout's still alive, a lethargic unfurling of limbs as he struggles to piece together what just happened to him while registering the beginnings of excruciating pain.</p>
  <p>Eyes still scanning the trees, Lee whistles sharply through his teeth, and his dogs come stampeding back. He takes metered steps toward the fallen enemy, prepared for the guy to pull a weapon. Instead, the man just cringes at the approaching footsteps, and Lee plants the heel of his boot into his shoulder, shoves him over onto his back.</p>
  <p>Judging by the prayer he's whispering to himself, he's a Frenchman. Interesting. Lee would have expected one of the natives. No matter; Lee speaks French, too.</p>
  <p>He shoulders his rifle, withdraws his trench knife from where it's holstered at his thigh, and kneels down. </p>
  <p>"Tell me where your men are positioned and I can make this quick and merciful for you," he says. </p>
  <p>The guy struggles to speak at first, then mocks Lee's accent even though he knows his French is flawless. Lee nods. Sighs dramatically. Then rises to his feet as his dogs sit at the ready.</p>
  <p>"<em>Esst</em>!" he snarls, and the dogs descend upon the fallen man, who chokes on bloodied screams.</p>
</blockquote><p>
  
</p><p>Lee's awareness assembles itself piece by piece, an ebb and flow of unpleasant sensations swirling around him as he attempts to resist consciousness. Gradually, the color bleeds back into his surroundings. <em>Everything </em>hurts. The hole in his side feels even more pronounced, still petulantly throbbing with his heartbeat. His limbs are dead weight and refuse to respond when he tries to move them, and there's an even stronger urgency of nausea now, even though he certainly has nothing left in him to vomit. </p><p>He doesn't remember being lifted out of the carriage or being carried in from the cold. He blearily blinks around, eyes struggling to adjust in the darkened room after being blinded by early morning pre-snow sky. The soft glow of an oil lamp nearby casts a flickering shadow across the dimmed space, gloomy grey light filtering in through a window next to him. The sky has darkened considerably and a strong wind rattles the panes - snowfall is imminent. </p><p>He's in an infirmary. The doctor is seated at his side, sleeves rolled up past his elbows. The front of his waistcoat is soaked with blood, giving the illusion that <em>he's</em> the one that got shot. He's focused on Lee's side, and there's something so removed in his expression, like Lee isn't a patient but some inanimate object that needs repairing. </p><p>It's that shuttered look to the doctor's eyes that stokes Lee's panic. It's unnerving. </p><p>Especially distressing is how he's terrified of looking down and assessing the damage himself. It's excruciating, and he knows looking at it will only amplify the pain. He's bare-chested, he realizes suddenly, and an uncharacteristic surge of modesty overwhelms him at the understanding that he'd been halfway disrobed while unconscious. It really shouldn't matter, it's not like there are any womenfolk around, it's just him and this man, this trained physician who has probably seen tons of naked bodies in much more compromising manners, but there's something about the inherent vulnerability of it, the implication that he'd been maneuvered and tended to like some child's doll. </p><p>"Where is Burr?" Lee blurts out, eyes darting around the room and finding it empty save for him and the doctor.</p><p>The doctor doesn't look up. "He had business to tend to," is all he supplies. Christ, even his voice is shuttered. Flat. </p><p>Lee's panic ticks up a notch. <em>Business more important than ensuring my welfare</em>? How very like Burr, to scamper off when things got hairy. </p><p>And why does Lee feel so threatened right now? He doesn't appreciate being left all alone with this stranger who has the most frigid bedside manner he's ever seen. Something isn't right, something <em>doesn't feel right</em>.</p><p>"He - " Lee gasps, chokes on nothing, tries again: "<em>He left me</em>?" It sounds so defeated and needy. </p><p>"He'll return tomorrow."</p><p>Lee's renewed panic is accompanied by a sharp scent that burns his sinuses, some cleansing substance dampening the bandages the doctor has prepared. He already knows he's in for a world of more pain. Now comes the worst part.</p><p>He pants shallowly once, then gulps down a dizzying breath of air, setting desperate eyes on the doctor, trying to draw his gaze. "Wait - Doctor - Jones, was it? Please - "</p><p>"General Lee," the doctor says quietly. </p><p>Said in such a calmly sobering manner, it causes Lee to freeze in place. His chest stills as he stops breathing. </p><p>A knuckle nudges at Lee's jawline, tilting his head to the side. "Look out the window."</p><p>He barely has time to process the curt command before the hole in his side is erupting in caustic pain, pulsing with renewed intensity, his throat closing up around the scream that never manages to leave him. He sees nothing for several frantic heartbeats. When his vision finally clears again, his focus is strangely heightened, trained on some discarded pamphlets outside that are swirling frivolously in the blustery wind. The image is blurred from the tears that have sprung into his eyes, and when he writhes against the pain, he's held in place by a strikingly firm grip.</p><p>The doctor is on the petite side but his strength is impressive. He's probably had a lot of practice with this; restraining distraught patients. </p><p>"Focus on your breathing." Still so calm. Detached. </p><p>It takes a few frantic, shallow breaths before his throat will open up again, before his lungs expand, but finally he gets a satisfying breath. It seems to expand his wound, hurts too much. He tries again, more cautiously this time, a long, tentative inhale, a defeated exhale. It helps a little, to concentrate on this. He stares hard at those pamphlets swirling outside, recalls the swirls of the leaves in the woods when he crossed through the mountains on the advance to Fort Duquesne. </p><p>He thinks of his dogs, regrets that he neglected to make arrangements for them in the event that...well, something like this happened. He wishes Burr hadn't skipped out so quickly. The queasy gnaw of defeat churns at the center of his rib cage; he doesn't want to think about how everyone who might have ever given a fuck about him seems to have written him off. His dogs are all he has left. Who will take care of them now? </p><p>His throat is thick; he's not about to start sobbing now. Not in front of this glacial stranger who's got his fight-or-flight instinct prickling.</p><p>"I need to turn you on your side," the doctor says from somewhere far away, a beacon pulling him out of the dark.</p><p>Lee's pulse spikes, his chest goes tight, he has to concentrate on learning how to breathe without pain all over again. He draws his eyes away from the scattered pamphlets outside and shifts glassy eyes to the doctor, finally gaining control of his extremities just enough to put a pleading, restraining hand around the doctor's wrist. He coolly looks down at Lee's feeble grip on him, then back to Lee's face.</p><p>"I'll give you a moment to compose yourself," he says. </p><p>Static flares in his vision, his temples throb, Lee doesn't like how condescending that sounds. He huffs impatiently, manages just enough energy to snap a roll of his eyes. "Just do it," Lee breathes.</p><p>He bites the inside of his cheek, lets the whimper die in his throat as his consciousness starts to slip again, the room tilting sideways. He doesn't register what's happening to him, can't separate individual sensations from one another, it's just pain on pain on pain. </p><p><em>It's profoundly unfortunate</em>, Lee remembers one of his old associates saying. They'd been encamped near Fort Niagara, musing at the squalid conditions of most infirmaries. Soldiers seemed to have a higher survival rate on the battlefield than they did in any filthy, cramped hospital. <em>Weapons and war have advanced too quickly for colonial medicine to keep up. It's all guesswork with these battlefield charlatans. Not a single one of them can agree on proper treatment of a wound</em>. </p><p>Indeed. It's a particularly memorable sentiment now, with this sadistic doctor who presumes to torture him by pouring acid in his open wound, apparently.</p><p>Distantly, between the vises of so many different layers of agony, Lee registers the peculiar warmth of the doctor's palm against his back. He must have warmed his hands over the fire before tending to Lee's wound, because they're no longer chilled by the frigid open air. It's much more pleasant now, less bracing. Fingertips fitted into the dips of his spine, a small touch that anchors him to sanity. It's light but steadying, a trivial feeling that Lee latches onto because it's the only thing in his world right now that doesn't hurt.</p><p>The notion has him reeling - he can't remember the last time he was touched gently, has to dig through memories from before Monmouth, before his time as a prisoner of war, even. He thinks of the prostitute he'd bedded in that tavern the night General Cornwallis learned of his whereabouts and arranged for his capture; even she hadn't been this delicate with him. He'd felt like he'd gotten into a confrontation with a wild animal that night, his scalp burning from where she'd tugged on his hair, reddened claw marks lining his back from where she'd dug her fingernails in, a couple of crescent-shaped teeth imprints on the inside of his thighs. </p><p>He'd loved every second of it, of course - but upon reflection now, there's some dizzying, brackish emotion that pools in the back of his mind that this idle, unassuming touch from this apathetic stranger is the first time in an age that Lee has been handled in any way that wasn't violent.</p><p>Even Burr's earlier petting doesn't seem to count for anything; that had been a compulsive, obnoxiously self-serving gesture. Disingenuous. </p><p>Does the doctor's thumb twitch? Maybe Lee is delirious, maybe he imagines the little near-miss caress, but he swears he feels the pad of a thumb bump over his spine. Just once. </p><p><em>Almost done</em>, Lee hears above him, an echo at the end of a tunnel. Maybe he imagined that, too. He's huffing shallowly, muffling his whimpers against his wrist. He's shivering, body gone cold from the thin sheen of sweat that's broken out over his body, but thankfully the doctor is easing him onto his back again, securing the bandages to his side, drawing a blanket over his bare midsection.</p><p>Any other time, he might have recoiled from the facsimile of intimacy in the gesture, but right now, he only has the energy to be grateful. </p><p>When his eyes refocus, everything is a halo of gaslight haze. The amber light hovers and dances hypnotically, and it lulls him into an almost pleasant half-state of consciousness. He recognizes the floating delirium of blood loss. He can feel his heart, thready and much less frantic now, like bird wings fluttering against the inside of his chest. He knows he'll black out again soon. </p><p>"You don't remember me, do you?"</p><p>It takes several false starts before Lee registers that the doctor has spoken to him, even longer for Lee to process the words. His brow furrows as he shifts his eyes to the man still seated beside him, blinking against blurred vision to genuinely inspect his face for the first time.</p><p>His youthfulness is striking - he might be younger even than Lee. There's something to be envied in the strong definition of his forearms, the corded veins beneath the skin, a symbol of health and strength. He's handsome, in an oddly unsettling way. Like everything about his features is too...perfect. From the deliberate tousle of his hair - there's no way the wind did that naturally - to the cut of his jaw, the high line of his cheekbones. He has the artfully sculpted look of a porcelain doll, or he almost would, if his dark eyes weren't so hard and calculating, betraying his seeming innocence as they silently challenge Lee's memory. </p><p>Unfortunately, nothing familiar stirs in him. Lee doesn't know this man. </p><p>The doctor huffs softly through his nose, nods curtly, something twitches in his cheek. Even <em>that </em>looks perfect, this subtle little flourish in his expression, an accidentally alluring dimple of annoyance. Lee fixates on it, tries to invoke some long-buried memory, though none comes.</p><p>The doctor wordlessly rises, the legs of his chair reverberating against the floor as he impatiently drags it back and leaves Lee's side. He volunteers no explanation or introduction. Just silently turns away, begins clearing up his supplies. </p><p>Something churns low in Lee's gut, his fight or flight reflexes springing back to life. He has the distinct understanding that he's just failed some critical test, and it has the hair prickling on the backs of his arms as he watches the doctor move about the room. </p><p>The man's compact, muscular frame gives an almost inhuman precision to his movements. Lee's strangely reminded of his assignment to the Balkans, and the sturdy grace of the lynxes that inhabited those forests. Except every lynx he ever encountered in the wild was much more docile and nonthreatening than this man. They behaved more like affectionate domesticated cats while this man invokes the chilling impression of being hunted.</p><p>There's the splash of water, the musical sound of steel medical instruments tumbling together, the creak of the wood floors beneath the doctor's careful footsteps. They're quaint sounds, almost soothing. Lee wonders if the doctor will stick around to monitor him, or retire to his own quarters. A blip of dread somersaults in his stomach at the thought; he doesn't trust this man, but he's also unsure how he feels about being left alone right now. He <em>really </em>doesn't want to be alone right now.</p><p>In his periphery, Lee watches the doctor organize his supplies, then move more visibly into his field of vision. He's in front of the hearth, shrouded in the ethereal waning firelight. His back is turned toward Lee, head bowed as he seems to be fiddling with the fastenings of his waistcoat. It's strange that he's stripping off his bloodied clothes here, though they <em>are </em>particularly stained and it's fair to assume the doctor must think Lee has already blacked out again. </p><p>It feels inappropriately voyeuristic, but something about having been disrobed and tended to while unconscious makes Lee want to gain back a sliver of agency, to exploit this vantage point. He's grateful for his long, dark eyelashes now, that he can inconspicuously watch through half-lidded eyes and make a convincing display of being asleep. </p><p>Maybe it's an extension of his perpetual competitive instinct; Washington has finally grown weary of playing this continuous pissing game with him, so Lee's first impulse is to take advantage of the only man left in his immediate proximity. Always sizing himself up against the other men in his orbit, desperately ensuring himself that he's the best at everything, from physique, to intellect, to charm. And maybe, a little bit, this doctor inspires some buried insecurity in him. </p><p>The waistcoat is tossed dismissively onto a table, the linen of the shirt slips over his shoulders. </p><p>It might be an illusion of shadow caused by the firelight's trickery, but the pale grey light illuminating the room falls almost too deliberately on the doctor's back, highlighting the criss-cross of scars there.</p><p>Angry ribbons of raised pink lashings cover his muscled back, the telltale scarring of a man who had been brutally whipped some years ago.</p><p>A memory stirs, a queasy uncoiling in the pit of Lee's belly as understanding dawns on him.</p><p>This whole display was intentional; the doctor turned his back in the light precisely so Lee would see this.</p><p> </p><p>It had been in Fort Ticonderoga, 1758; an errant bullet had found its way into Lee's thigh. Against his insistence to just let it be, he'd been ordered to Long Island for recovery. </p><p>The arrogant novice of a medic there had stressed the importance of digging the bullet out, that it might slowly poison him over time if left in. Preposterous in itself - plenty of soldiers Lee knew had been just fine walking around with a lead shot still in them - but even worse, the doctor had insisted on treating the wound with some kind of chemical to keep it clean, said something called "sterilisation" was tantamount to preventing infection. Lee had insisted otherwise; just cauterize it and wrap it, like everyone else. </p><p>It had been significantly unpleasant, Lee shouting obscenities at the doctor as he stretched the wound open even more, dug around in his thigh to fish the goddamn bullet out, then took the steaming bandages he'd previously soaked in boiling water and cleaned the wound with them. It was pretty inspired as far as torture methods went, but an unprofessional way to treat a decorated soldier. </p><p>Once Lee could at least limp around without assistance, the first thing he'd done was fetch that doctor, drag him out to the courtyard of the infirmary, and strap him to one of the posts where the couriers tied their horses. </p><p>Lee had been drunk, then; by that point, he'd already earned a reputation for his unpredictability and bouts of inebriated rage. </p><p>Complying out of fear rather than loyalty, two of Lee's associates helped rip the doctor's shirt off, laying his back bare for Lee's wrath. </p><p>He'd drawn blood on the first stroke.</p><p>The doctor finally cried out on the fourth.</p><p>Accounts of the incident seemed to change depending on who was telling the story and in which tavern it was being told, but the one detail that was corroborated by everyone who claimed to have been in the vicinity was that every sharp whistle and crack of the whip could be heard throughout the entire building. Even residents of neighboring apartments had heard it, counted eleven strokes before it ended, when the doctor finally lost consciousness.</p><p>Lee had been so drunk, he'd not thought twice about it; to him, this was a fitting consequence for a doctor too arrogant to listen to reason. He'd never really looked upon the doctor long enough for any memorable image to stick with him, but now -</p><p> </p><p>But now. </p><p>Maybe it's a manufactured recreation of that day, a false memory to fill in the blanks, but the vivid recollection of the doctor being hauled away is stamped to the inside of his skull. Hanging limply between Lee's two men, head drooping pitifully, perfectly tousled hair falling over his face. His back cruelly slashed open, rivulets of blood pouring down, red spattering the ground. </p><p>At the time, it hadn't occurred to Lee to consider what became of the doctor immediately afterwards, but in retrospect, it's a wonder he survived. It had been July, and the heavy, damp heat would have been especially unforgiving on severe wounds. And the doctor's back had resembled a slab of raw meat hanging at the butcher's when Lee had finished with him.  </p><p>One week later, in a feverish, delirious rage, the doctor appeared in Lee's quarters. He'd clearly been under the influence of something - probably opium, to mitigate the pain - pupils so dilated, his eyes were a predatory black, and a particularly detached, shuttered expression deadening his features. </p><p>Inhuman. Feral.</p><p>Not unlike the same expression he wore at Lee's bedside just now.</p><p>Lee's skin crawls, fists instinctively clenching into the blanket covering him. That's why he's felt so threatened in this man's presence. On some primal level, he's been subconsciously aware of the danger. Aware that he'd encountered this man before, who has it within his power to destroy him. Who has every reason to, besides. </p><p>Lee can still perfectly recall the clench of the elbow enclosing his throat, the near fatal chokehold that absolutely should have killed him that day. The glint of the scalpel in the sunlight flooding through the open window, the pinch of the blade against his belly. The surgical tool must have been a backup plan, most likely; the doctor had been planning this, wisely anticipated running out of energy before he'd managed to strangle Lee to the point of no return. If choking him to death failed, he'd have gutted him instead.</p><p>What's that frivolous boast Hamilton's always saying? <em>I imagine death so much, it feels more like a memory</em>.</p><p>It's such an incredibly trite sentiment in the face of all the legitimate instances throughout Lee's career that should have done him in by now, but didn't. There had already been so many, but this doctor's assassination attempt was, truthfully, the one instance that had been closest to succeeding.</p><p>Because as an experienced physician, he would know how to cause serious harm. How to make it certain.</p><p> </p><p>The doctor, meanwhile, is facing him now. He'd pivoted so gracefully, even the floorboards didn't creak under the movement. He could be a Duquesnoy sculpture, channeling the poised perfection of a statue, he's so unnervingly still where he stands. His physique inspires a fleeting pang of jealousy in Lee - why the hell would a <em>doctor</em> be built like <em>that</em>? </p><p>And cold eyes boring into Lee's skull, challenging him. </p><p>Adrenaline is a hell of a thing, honestly. </p><p>That fight-or-flight instinct that has been simmering for hours now has reached a boiling point. Without even consciously considering the movement, Lee's reflexes are firing dramatically, springing him upright in a preamble to bolting for the door.</p><p>A powerful hand catches him by the throat.</p><p>Clenches just hard enough to restrain, but not quite enough to cut off his airway.</p><p>Throws him back so forcefully that Lee's head bounces off the pillow once. </p><p>That hand catches him on the rebound, slender, elegant fingers wrapped around his throat, <em>too elegant</em>, except for the telling callous at the junction of his thumb and forefinger - this doctor has held a gun a few times too many for just a harmless healer.</p><p>That Lee notices this little detail is an acknowledgement of the threat level. All of his senses are sounding the alarms, perception heightened considerably, <em>he's in danger</em>. </p><p>It's too late to matter - those elegant fingers are tightening, <em>tightening </em>around his throat, sealing off his trachea. Bracing him in place against the pillow. A thumb pressed into his carotid, so deep he can feel his own pulse hammering against the guy's thumbnail digging into his skin. </p><p>Time slows, the room distorts around him, he's dizzy. The doctor is almost nose-to-nose with him, sneering at him. Lee muses that even snarling, this guy is still so picturesque, teeth too dazzlingly perfect, they almost don't look real. </p><p>"I could end you," he hisses, "right now. The <em>only</em> reason you're still breathing is by the grace of my mercy."</p><p>Lee's chest jumps with the urge to laugh, though he hasn't enough breath in him to indulge it. Between the blood loss, panic, and this doctor's hand shutting off his airway, he acknowledges that he's going a little mad. </p><p>His mouth forms around a response and the doctor loosens his grip so Lee might draw just enough breath to speak. </p><p>"Do it," Lee breathes. He'd meant for it to sound like a dare, but instead it comes out sounding so defeated and self-effacing. "Why not do it? You should."</p><p>The doctor narrows his eyes and cants his head just slightly to the side. His thumb twitches and traces a brief, pensive trail down the line of Lee's trachea. A threat carried out gently, meant to mock.</p><p>All the tension of Lee's previous survival instinct has curiously left him in a instant. Perhaps he's too injured and weak to even spare the emotional energy for self-preservation. Maybe a part of him feels he deserves this. Maybe a part of him feels this doctor deserves his revenge.</p><p>Curious, that he didn't succeed the first time. He absolutely could have. An absurd notion stirs in the back of Lee's mind that the doctor may have spared him intentionally that day. </p><p>"I - look at me," Lee says. "I'm a disgraced soldier whose army abandoned him. There's no use left for me. Just get on with it, then."</p><p>One corner of the doctor's mouth quirks up - not quite a smile, but the smug cousin of one. He releases Lee's throat from his grip, fluidly backs off of him, then turns his back toward Lee again - <em>slowly -</em> like he's making an effort to showcase Lee's artwork. Lee recognizes the accusation for what it is, the doctor's passive-aggressive way of throwing this transgression in his face, forcing him to be accountable. Lee averts his eyes. </p><p>Thankfully, the doctor is procuring a clean shirt, mercifully covering up the evidence of Lee's violence. It's an alien feeling for him, but Lee feels some pinch in his chest, a spasm like a hiccup, a listless hollow expanding between his ribs as he deduces that this must be what guilt feels like.</p><p>"I - " Lee begins, but the doctor has already anticipated this, apparently.</p><p>He spins around, stabbing an accusatory finger toward Lee. "<em>Don't you dare</em>," he seethes. "Don't you dare say it. Don't dare patronize me. You're not. You regret nothing."</p><p>Lee clamps his mouth shut, rolls his bottom lip in and bites down on it because he's certain he looks like he's sulking. His eyes sting, his throat is sore, that little spasm jolts in his chest again. It's the pent-up reflex of a person who really needs a good long moment to sob uncontrollably. But he's not about to do that in present company. </p><p>It's an infuriating dilemma; he's torn between the desperate need to purge himself of all these dark emotions with the dignity of privacy, and the unfortunate need to have some kind of human in his immediate proximity. Though the doctor seems prepared to take his leave; Lee can sense the man's distaste for him, his overwhelming revulsion to sharing a space with him for any longer than necessary. </p><p>"Jones?"  </p><p>The uncontrolled fragility in Lee's voice stops the doctor in mid-step.</p><p>Lee sees his jaw tighten, as though he's offended that Lee had the audacity to call him by name. He offers the slightest turn of his head, regarding Lee impatiently. </p><p>"Why <em>don't</em> you do it? Why didn't you?"</p><p>"Why don't you do it yourself?" Jones counters.</p><p>The question hits Lee like a brick to the chest, has him legitimately wheezing. Strangely, he'd never considered...<em>that </em>before, and now that he's faced with the concept of taking charge of his own mortality, it has a particularly wretched discomfort swirling between his ribs, squeezing his heart. </p><p>Lee narrows his eyes. "Is that a challenge, or are you genuinely asking?"</p><p>The smallest of rueful sighs escapes Jones, as though he immediately regrets saying it. It was a cruelly insensitive thing to say, and he seems to concede to that. He crosses his arms over his chest and leans his shoulder against the door frame, pausing to inspect Lee's face in an extended uncomfortable silence.</p><p>"Do you ever wonder why men who have abandoned their faith in God still seem to believe in the devil?" Jones finally says.</p><p>Lee makes a small sound of impatience and shifts on the pillow in what he hopes is a clear gesture of indifference. "I'm in no mood for an exploration of the poetic. Never mind. Forget I asked."</p><p>Lee cringes when he feels the bed dip as Jones sits beside him; he hadn't even seen the doctor move in his periphery, no sound had been made beneath his feet. It's a peculiar feeling, though - Lee's heart is hammering uncomfortably from being startled, but his skin is crawling in that warm anticipation that typically precedes getting laid. He recognizes how isolated he's been since his time as a prisoner of war under the British. It occurs to him that he certainly needs to put it round more often because right now, the mere proximity of this man who might yet be Lee's potential murderer is the most thrilling thing he's felt in <em>years</em>. </p><p>"Well, I do," Jones continues. "I suspect it has to do with how much more practical it is to believe in the inherent evil of every man than it is to ever expect him to be good. Evil is simply easier."</p><p>"So, what, then? You spared my life because...you think I'm evil? Or...you are? That makes absolutely no sense." </p><p>"Wouldn't you consider death an act of mercy, though?"</p><p>Christ. There's that brick to the chest again. The question really throws him, and Lee has to appreciate that this guy has an impressively honed talent for keeping him on his toes. </p><p>"Listen carefully, Lee." </p><p>Ha, and it's a warning tone, no less.</p><p>"I'm not about to contemplate the folly and arrogance of designating oneself the arbiter of another man's fate - that's an ethical conversation for another time. But it has become very clear that you are more than capable of perpetuating your own deserved misfortune all on your own. To the point where you'd do a lot more damage to yourself than I could ever do to you. I saw it back then, when you'd whipped me nearly to the point of death, and it's even more apparent now. You've never faced consequences before. I don't think there's anything constructive in squandering the one instance in your life where you're finally forced to answer for your oafish behavior. No, you get to live with this humiliation a little longer, <em>General</em>."</p><p>Oh, and that last word is spat out with such distaste, as if it's the most vile curse word in any spoken language. It especially resonates now, because that's technically not even Lee's title anymore. </p><p>And Lee feels as though he's been punched in the throat. That was a little more than he was willing to hear. <em>Should have just left it at the part where you implied I should kill myself</em>, he thinks. That was a lot less intimate and painful than this.</p><p>"The wicked are so rarely punished for their sins in life, is that it?" Lee says sourly.</p><p>Jones maintains an unnerving, sober stare on him before answering, offering another extended silence presumably just to make Lee uncomfortable. To make him feel scrutinized and exposed. It's working, if that's the case.</p><p>"You catch on rather quickly," he says at length.</p><p>Lee feels his entire body flush in indignation, instinctively on the defensive at this man's arrogant taunting. He's not even being subtle about it, while Lee is vulnerable and weak and can't properly defend himself. </p><p>"I did everything right," Lee snaps, as forcefully as he can in his current condition. "And for all it means to you, I don't believe in either God or the devil, so your little lecture was as useless as it was presumptuous."</p><p>Jones offers a genuine smile for the first time. Broad and dazzling, it actually disorients Lee for a moment, which just has his irritation flaring. Even as delirious and fatigued as he is, Lee can deduce that everything about this man is calculated to be as deceptively charming and unassuming as possible while being maliciously lethal. A sharpened blade hidden in a velvet glove.</p><p>"Neither do I," Jones says. "I was merely observing the habits of the many, not the nuances of the unconventional."</p><p>"<em>I'm a military genius</em>," Lee says, a little too petulant to be taken seriously. He isn't sure why he feels so obligated to defend himself to this man. "I'm responsible for the most innovative tactical maneuvers these undisciplined <em>farmers</em> might have ever seen in a lifetime. To have been judged so unfairly for <em>one </em>improperly executed conflict - which wasn't my fault, mind you, the intelligence was faulty and Washington wasn't exactly explicit on what he wanted from me - is to squander the most valuable weapon you've got. Do you have any idea what it is to be a virtuoso in a chorus of amateurs? I think I more than earned my right to be <em>evil</em>."</p><p>Jones's mouth flattens into a straight line, the exhausted look of a man who has run out of patience for a lifetime. "No need to read me in on the details, General. I read the notes on your court-martial. Everyone did. Even I'll admit, you had some legitimate grievances. Your reputation speaks for itself, I'll concede to that. But being immensely talented in your profession doesn't justify being a savage barbarian, no matter how much you think it does.<em> I</em> seem to be making out quite well as a leader in my profession while maintaining some approximation of an honorable existence."</p><p>"<em>Tch</em>. Leader in your profession? You - "</p><p>Lee recoils and yelps when Jones's hand clamps down on his thigh, the one where he'd taken a bullet at Fort Ticonderoga years ago. His fingers squeeze hard, bearing so forcefully into Lee's femoral artery that his leg begins to tingle with the pinpricks of hindered circulation. </p><p>"I saved your goddamn leg, is what I did," Jones hisses. "Any other physician would have amputated it, and I see you still very much have your own flesh. You'd have been crippled if not for me and you <em>beat me for it</em>. Don't you dare presume to be the arbiter of medical competence when you haven't the slightest skills required to even <em>recognize </em>it."</p><p>Jones shoves off of the bed so abruptly that it jostles Lee enough to aggravate his wound, causing him to cry out. His thigh is still throbbing, and he knows it will bruise significantly. To make things worse, there's a faint blossom of blood staining the bandages over his side, and he fears his wound is still seeping steadily. </p><p>And, strangely, he wonders why his cock is rock hard. Theoretically he should be too hobbled by pain to get it up for some time, but it would seem his body insists on behaving all kinds of irrationally right now. </p><p>Jones is brusquely taking his leave, meanwhile.</p><p>"<em>Don't leave</em>," Lee breathes, immediately closing his eyes in regret, as he hadn't intended to say that out loud.</p><p><em>I still don't trust you not to kill me, but I'm too terrified to be left alone right now</em>, is what he really wants to say.</p><p>"I have to consult with my father," Jones says flatly. "He's a rather respected physician as well, you see."</p><p>There's a spark of recognition at this, a slow unfurling of understanding as Lee stops breathing. <em>Fuck</em>. Not <em>that </em>Jones.</p><p>"John," Lee whispers. "<em>John Jones</em> is your father? The doctor that tends to Washington?"</p><p>There's that smug little cousin of a smile tipping up the corner of Jones's mouth again. He cants his head, a shameless display of arrogance. It's likely he was intentionally waiting for the last moment to lay this card on the table, it's so perfectly timed. "Hm, yes, that would be the one."</p><p>Lee presses himself against the pillow, wishing he could disappear inside it. It occurs to him that he may have made a few errors over the course of his career. That he's faced so mercilessly with arguably the most grievous one of them is a little too cruel of a punishment than he'd been prepared to handle. He has no response for that, no pleas left to bargain with. This doctor's sympathies have likely been expended on merely allowing him to live. He realizes it's too much to ask to - to - what? Ask for comfort from this man he nearly beat to death? </p><p class="">How absurd.</p><p>He wishes Burr was here.</p><p>Everything hurts. </p><p>Lee's despair must be especially evident, because Jones makes some muted sound of exasperation. "Oh, for the love of - "</p><p>There's movement in Lee's periphery, the swift patter of quaint footsteps on the floorboards. They sound a little too measured, as though the doctor intentionally exaggerates his footfalls to make his presence more conspicuous so as not to startle again.</p><p>He reappears in Lee's field of vision, pushing what looks like a communion wafer toward his mouth. "Open," Jones commands.</p><p>"What...?" But he doesn't need to ask. He can smell it; the medicinal aroma of laudanum. "Where even did you get that?" he mutters, obediently complying so that Jones can place it on his tongue.</p><p>"Doesn't matter," Jones says. "I don't suppose you'd be forthcoming in confessing to me all your sins, then, hm?"</p><p>Lee narrows his eyes, but <em>oh</em>, he can already feel the plunge of opiate haze. Everything still hurts, but it's dulled, his mind shadowed in a state of detachment. </p><p>"No, I wouldn't think so," Jones says. A smug, quick flash of perfect teeth. So quaint. "I already know enough of them, don't I?"</p><p>Lee doesn't exactly process the doctor's departure. One minute he's sinking into the murky depths of sedative ennui, and the next he's rediscovering his surroundings, notably alone, with no awareness of the passage of time. His face is wet; he's been silently crying for some time now. Trapped in the inertia of his loneliness, his pain, his disgraced career. </p><p>He's distinctly aware of how dry his mouth is, and though Jones had placed a pitcher of water and a glass at his bedside, Lee hasn't the ambition to even reach for it. He fixes glassy eyes on the droplets of condensation running in neat little rivulets down its curved base, at the way the ethereal firelight bends through the glass. Even if he had the will to reach for it, he fears sitting up will exacerbate the pain and aggravate his wound. He's already risked too much from that previous attempt to bolt for the door.</p><p>His heart rate has slowed considerably, particularly noticeable now as it still keeps time with the throb in the hole in his side. His entire midsection is wrapped in bandages, and he finds himself slipping his fingers underneath the material, finding that old, long-healed scar on his abdomen where the doctor had once driven a scalpel into his flesh. </p><p>He traces his fingers over it, tries to perfectly recall the way the blade felt pressing in. Truth be told, it hadn't really felt like anything, it had been so sharp. Then his fingers are idly creeping downward, he's pawing at his thigh, trying to feel the raised flesh of the scar there through his breeches. His eyes squint shut, he clenches his teeth, remembers the doctor's hand bracing his hip while the other held the dilator that stretched the wound open, the way the forceps felt digging around in the muscle of his thigh. It had been years ago, but he can invoke the memory in perfect detail. </p><p>At the time, Lee had been furious with him, shouting and writhing on the table that was slick with his blood, making all manner of threats. But now that his mind is quieted by drugs and introspection, he can rationally recall the other parts, too; namely, the way Jones had maintained such a detached state of calm while being threatened by a distraught, highly decorated soldier with a reputation for being a loose cannon, all while methodically digging around in a gory mess for a foreign object as casually as he might dissect his evening roast.</p><p>The whole time, he'd been murmuring to Lee in a low, soothing voice, possibly very aware that Lee wasn't processing his words, but attempting some kind of comforting communication, nevertheless. </p><p>Lee recalls this vividly now, laments that he'd not fully appreciated it in the moment. It's no wonder Jones had maintained such a frosty silence this time around. </p><p>He digs around in long-buried memories to recall the exact words, to at least grasp the muted timbre of Jones's voice as he spoke. It's fleeting, a placating sound attached to the memory of deep brown eyes glancing steadily up at him through a comely wisp of hair that had fallen over his brow. </p><p><em>I know it hurts, but I'll make it as brief as possible</em>. <em>Try to hold still</em>. </p><p>The memory is imperfect, though, too distant, and it's suddenly evolving into the way Jones sounded as he screamed when his back was thrashed open. </p><p>Lee makes some anguished little sound, and like the slow burn of a long fuse, shame uncoils in his gut as he notices how his hand has migrated from his thigh to his cock while his mind wandered. He'd been palming himself idly, just trying to get some friction to relieve the ache clawing its way through his groin.</p><p>That arousal has been abruptly sullied by gory memories and humiliation and regret, the sound of that scream echoing around the inside of Lee's head like an eternal accusation. His cock softens quickly beneath his palm. He jerks his hand away from himself as though he'd been burned, his face hot as he tries to reconcile with the fact that he was just touching himself to the thought of a - a - <em>another man</em>.</p><p>It's just the aftereffects of all that expended adrenaline, the natural occurrence of sexual excitement that sets in after coming so close to death. It had nothing to do with the doctor.</p><p>He's almost able to convince himself. <em>Almost</em>.</p><p>"I really am sorry," he whispers to the empty room. </p><p>It's as meaningless as if Jones had been there to hear it. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I may have....exaggerated the severity of Lee's injury and taken some liberties with historical events for dramatic effect 👀</p><p>fic is named after the <a href="https://youtu.be/_h7l1hTNKbY">Combichrist song</a>, which is...oddly fitting for this character</p><p>here be <a href="https://twitter.com/areallybighorse">garbage</a></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Convalescence</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> <b>[Sullivan's Island; 1776]</b></em>
</p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>Lee's eyes glaze over as they fix on the topsails of a merchant ship being towed through the foggy harbor. Fleeting and unbidden, a memory stirs behind his eyes, and the merchant ship is suddenly a British man-of-war, the blast of the cannons recreated so perfectly in his memory that it makes his ears ring even now. His heart stutters, his hand tightening on the edge of the table as he tries to anchor himself to the present.</p>
  <p>He clenches his teeth, closes his eyes, presses his thumb and forefinger to his eyelids. </p>
  <p>He'd been ready to retreat on a moment's notice. They'd been outnumbered, outgunned, and relegated to an unfinished fort. Watching the nine-ship fleet advancing through the channel had been especially daunting. Trapped in a slaughter pen.</p>
  <p>Sand-fortified fucking palmetto logs. It sounds absurd in theory, but no one would have expected them to be too flexible for a cannon to breach. In retrospect, from an engineering perspective, it's pretty goddamn inspired. Lee has filed this information away in case it comes to good use in future.</p>
  <p>The ring in his ears won't stop, though. Victory came at a price; every sleepless night since then has been a relentless replay of the way the cannons sounded as they bombarded the fort walls. He'd not stuck around for that assault for very long; even though the iron shot were buried in the endless sand traps more often than they found a target, the way the entire fort quivered sickeningly in all its spongy palmetto flexibility had Lee feeling every impact in the very roots of his teeth. </p>
  <p>It had been too reminiscent of what happened in Constantinople. </p>
  <p>Lee is ten years removed from that now, but that doesn't mean it occupies his thoughts any less. It had been as if the guardians of the underworld themselves had surfaced to upset the very earth. From the thunderous sounds that reverberated beneath his feet to the anxious shudder and eventual collapse of the ancient structures of the city; he wasn't about to relive that.</p>
  <p>Moultrie had it handled, besides. Lee preferred protecting the mainland anyway.</p>
  <p>What brings him peace is recalling the incapacitated HMS Actaeon, set ablaze after it had been grounded in the shoals and left vulnerable to the patriots' assault, the destroyed masts and rigging of the Bristol from the bombardment of chain shot, the abandoned boat that had been mercilessly fired upon as it waved a truce flag to deliver a ceasefire proclamation that ironically arrived a little too late. A thrill of satisfaction slurs through him as he recalls General Clinton's failed amphibious assault from the isle to the east, carelessly thinking the rebels would be too distracted by the attacks coming in from the harbor. </p>
  <p>The channel had been deeper than anticipated, and had been a convenient weapon at Lee's disposal.</p>
  <p>Angry, frustrated, impatient, and a little wounded that his plan for a bridge of boats to protect the mainland fell through, Lee had drowned an enemy soldier in that channel. Thigh deep in the shallows, hands clenched around the man's throat, watching his lips turn blue as he flailed and noisily splashed around, Lee had shoved him under, held him there and watched him with detached boredom through murky water until he went still, the light fading from his eyes. Then just left the body floating there and waded the couple of meters back to shore.</p>
  <p>Winded and drenched, Lee smoothed the wet curtain of hair back from his brow, lifted his face to the sky, and drew a long, measured inhale. Everything smelled of smoke and tasted of metallic ash from the gunpowder magazines burning. The British fleet was in ruins, and somewhere Sergeant Jasper was defiantly raising the blue crescent flag again after it had been shot down, rallying the troops and signifying the beginning of the end for the British assault.</p>
  <p>In the moment, Lee had felt nothing. Not vindication, not satisfaction, not even accomplishment. Killing, for him, was just an extension of living, like breathing or eating or pissing. Disposing of an inconvenience as one might swat at a particularly bothersome gnat.</p>
  <p>But now, he latches on to this memory, relishes the way the man's pulse hammered frantically against his palms until it slowed to nothing, invokes the pleading in the man's eyes as he stared up at Lee from beneath the surface of the water. It helps ground him, helps mute the ringing in his ears until his heart slows back to a normal pace.</p>
  <p>Meanwhile, there's the sound of shuffling as the courier before him shifts impatiently.</p>
  <p>Lee draws his hand away from his eyes, scans the summons order in front of him a second time, then slaps the parchment down, his frown deepening. He shoves a few coins at the courier without even glancing at him, who hastily takes his leave.</p>
  <p>The British troops are withdrawing from the south. Lee has no business here anymore. He didn't want to even be here in the first place.</p>
  <p>But the intelligence reports that he requested to be sent back to him are looking grim. Washington requires Lee's presence back north, but General Howe is also there, forcing the Continental Army to retreat. There will be spies everywhere. There will be a lot of old "friends" to recognize him and a lot of bad blood. Depending on who you ask, Lee either officially resigned or deserted; but that doesn't make any difference to the British and their penchant for behaving like a jilted lover any time someone's loyalties shift elsewhere.</p>
  <p>And being unceremoniously shot for treason by a former superior officer isn't exactly how Lee wanted to end his career.</p>
  <p>His chest is tight, his stomach is churning, and he clenches his hands into fists to still the tremor in them. Slowly, he lifts his eyes to the horizon, reluctantly setting on the topsails of the merchant ship again. Thankfully, it remains a merchant ship this time. </p>
  <p>His vision is blurred, he feels like he's rarely seen a sober moment in weeks. He reaches for the decanter again, the third time since he woke up. Pours a stiff drink. Watches his men as they clear out the entrenchment on the beach and load weapons onto supply boats. </p>
  <p>He's reluctant to march with Washington's troops. It's unwise, reckless.</p>
  <p>A rogue unit would be a lot more effective. Erratic hit-and-run tactics, striking quick in the night, sabotaging weapons and food supplies, abducting and assassinating their medics, quietly picking off enemy soldiers, engaging in psychological warfare to disorient and disrupt. These are the maneuvers Lee excels in. He prefers not to be seen, not to be officially affiliated under any flag or regiment, because it could mean the difference between life and death for him.</p>
  <p>But Washington is so consumed with formality. Always so obsessed with tradition, it makes him irresponsible. Under some naive delusion that war might be carried out <em>politely</em>. </p>
  <p>Then again, Lee is restless and can never stay in one place for long, has a significant distaste for the south, and Charles Town's...<em>hired companions</em> aren't particularly to his liking. And he's been such a wreck for the past few weeks that all he can think about is acquiring a warm, soft body to accompany his bed.</p>
  <p>He stalls, traipses around Georgia for a few weeks, building up defenses. But the pressure from New York is mounting. </p>
  <p>So, ultimately, Lee obeys orders and responds to the summons. </p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>"I need to see him."</p><p>Clumsy footsteps, a smattering of heavy thumps against a hardwood floor, as if someone is trying to shove their way through the door but is being restrained. </p><p>These noises exist just on the edges of awareness, just above the surface of a consciousness he can't quite swim to. Something feels...<em>wrong</em>, there's a growing discomfort that he can't exactly pinpoint to a specific source. Like waking up hungover but still too wiped out to be bothered to get up and address the necessity to vomit.</p><p>"Please, Doctor Jones - just let me see him, he was bleeding so much - if I've killed him, I - "</p><p>Ah, <em>Laurens</em>. Laurens!</p><p>How incredibly droll. The last time Lee saw him, he'd been so pompous in his victory. </p><p>(that shouldn't have been a victory, Lee didn't yield, <em>he didn't yield</em>)</p><p>Jones is murmuring something, but it's so soft, Lee can't make out the words. More pleading from Laurens, followed by a pronounced silence.</p><p>Then a rush of footsteps. Soft and measured, a calculated gait Lee has already come to recognize so well.</p><p>A shock of cold air as the blanket is drawn back, exposing him. The delicate touch of fingertips to his bandaged side.</p><p>"No...<em>no</em>." </p><p>Whispered emphatically. </p><p>"What did you do? <em>What did you do?</em>"</p><p>Vaguely, Lee understands that these words are meant for him and not Laurens, even if he's too out of it to comprehend or answer. Something has happened. Something awful has happened and Lee is intentionally postponing awareness so he doesn't have to confront how his condition has worsened considerably. </p><p>Everything is too cold. He feels damp - <em>drenched</em>, even - and so cold. As consciousness dawns on him, he realizes he's shivering so forcefully that it makes every muscle hurt, and the wound in his side has become a riot of new pain.</p><p>"Doctor Jones?!" Laurens's voice is a comical squeak, and if Lee had been conscious enough and had the strength, he'd have responded with barking laughter.</p><p>"No, he was stable, something...he did - Laurens, you must leave immediately."</p><p>There's a pronounced lack of retreating footsteps. Laurens is hesitating, petulantly hovering nearby, bound by his guilt, probably. </p><p>"<em>Very well, then</em>. Come make yourself useful, in that case."</p><p>Then the bandages are being cut away, a damp cloth is enveloping Lee's hand, and he understands that he's been fidgeting with his wound in his delirious half-state of existence, perhaps subconsciously punishing himself, maybe desperately trying to drive the infectious agony out of his body. Or a detached attempt at suicide. </p><p>"Jones? What's happening to him? Why is his coloring...like that?"</p><p>There's the slam of cabinet doors, a splash of water. Hurried footsteps. </p><p>"He's suffering from exemia. Put a pillow under his feet. Don't just stand there gaping at me, Laurens. Do as I say. Quickly."</p><p>"What? What does that mean?"</p><p>"He's lost too much blood." Spoken curtly, saturated with annoyance. Then: "Laurens, <em>now</em>!"</p><p>More clumsy, erratic footsteps. A warm cloth is placed at Lee's temple, his forehead. Clearing the sheen of sweat away. Hands are framing his face. <em>Oh</em> - and it feels so good. So good to be touched.</p><p>"Lee, I need you to focus." </p><p>Reluctantly, Lee opens his eyes. Even that hurts, feels like it splits his head in two. There's fuzzy white light at the edges of his vision, and everything seems to dance and shift with every irregular beat of his heart. Jones is at his side, staring soberly down at him as he dabs at Lee's brow. His previously glacial eyes are betraying him now; they're much too expressive now, a hybrid of concern, apology...tragedy.</p><p>Lee feels himself slipping again, his surroundings momentarily blinking out of focus as a new pillow is eased under his head. A hand encircles his upper arm and squeezes, fingers cruelly pressing into the nerve there to shock him back to awareness.</p><p>"Lee, look at me." </p><p>Jones looks rather beatific like this, backlit by the fire. </p><p>"I know you said you weren't a man of faith. But you need to tell me now - in case I need to make arrangements."</p><p>Lee smiles, tries to laugh. He doesn't quite have the energy, but between the pain and terror and panic, he feels some grim satisfaction. Oh, that Laurens gets to bear witness to this, so it may haunt him for the rest of his life! Lee couldn't have asked for more. It sounds so far away, but he's certain he can hear him weeping and muttering incoherently at the edge of the room.</p><p>"So you can't save me, after all," is the only response Lee can summon. He hadn't intended to sound so spiteful. He was really going more for gallows humor. So maybe it fell a little flat.</p><p>"Laurens, go fetch a priest," Jones grumbles. </p><p>Lee grabs Jones's wrist and squeezes with what little strength he has left. "No," he breathes. "Don't bother. My - my dogs. Go get my dogs." </p><p><em>If they haven't already frozen to death</em>, Lee thinks. Greyhounds have so little body fat. Winters are especially harsh for them. </p><p>"Won't they attack me?" Laurens is asking, and he sounds so pathetically desperate. Probably frantic to do whatever he can to absolve himself of his sins, knowing he's just killed a man.</p><p>"Not...unless...I command them to," Lee manages, though it's just a slurred murmur. Speaking hurts him so, seems to drain the last bit of life out of him. He can't be sure Laurens even hears him.</p><p>"Quickly, we may be short on time," Jones commands.</p><p>There's a pronounced hesitation before the eventual retreating footsteps, the jarring slam of a door.</p><p>"Was this some spiteful attempt at manufacturing a demonstration of my negligence?" </p><p>The rebuke in Jones's tone actually causes Lee to recoil a little. Strangely, Lee had been expecting compassion, but he immediately realizes the absurdity of that. </p><p>"How arrogant," Lee sighs, "that you would assume this was about you."</p><p>The hands tending to Lee's newly aggravated wound go still. Lee couldn't keep his eyes open for very long, but he senses that Jones is glaring down at him. There's no response, however. Just a prolonged silence before he resumes attempting to repair the damage. </p><p>Lee really wants to vomit, but he's not about to move and put himself in even more agony than he's in now. He's too cold, too agitated, too confused. Every little sensory detail surrounding him is particularly abrasive, spikes his nerves. The fire crackling in the hearth is too loud, the orange light dancing behind his closed eyelids too invasive. He can feel his mind slipping, forgets where and when he is, keeps hallucinating vivid recollections of every past trauma throughout his career. It makes every jolt back to reality that much more unpleasant. </p><p>Lee grasps feebly for Jones's wrist again, squeezes with as much force as he can manage. It's embarrassingly weak. "Jones," Lee whispers. "Just let me die. ...It hurts."</p><p>Another prolonged silence. No acknowledgement of Lee's request for surrender. Just: "I know." </p><p>Spoken softly and with unmistakable compassion. </p><p>Disjointed fragments of things happening around him are lost in the chaos of his delirium. He's in Constantinople again, tossed out of bed before the sun has risen, glass tumbling and breaking, walls cracking, ceilings collapsing as he tries to stay upright with the ground shaking violently beneath him. The wave of the ensuing tsunami amidst the aftershocks delivers a man to his side and it's Laurens, accompanied by Lee's dogs, who sit obediently on either side of him.</p><p>He's been weeping and doesn't try to hide it. He seems startled by Lee's open eyes, and the expression of vulnerability on him is striking. His hair is loose and framing his face, every freckle especially pronounced in this light, his mouth making him look deceptively innocent with its perpetual pout. </p><p>"What are you doing in Constantinople, Laurens? Your services aren't needed here," Lee mutters, and his own voice sounds so far away. Like he's speaking from behind the veil of a dream.</p><p>Laurens's brow wrinkles in confusion. "What? We're in Philadelphia, Lee." </p><p>Lee doesn't get the chance to make sense of that or respond, because another wave is coming and it plunges him under. He's disoriented, didn't get a deep enough breath, and his lungs are already struggling as he lets the undercurrent toss him about. </p><p><em>He said something about an earthquake,</em> echoes distantly above the surface. </p><p><em>...he's incoherent, doesn't know where he is</em>...</p><p>He fights the waves, swims frantically toward the surface with everything he's got, only to realize he'd misjudged which way was up and has been swimming down this whole time. It's so cold and dark down here. </p><p>The rushing of the waves has stopped, and he can still hear those voices, so far away but more pronounced now, like they're reaching him from the end of a narrow alleyway, the echo delivering them to him with perfect clarity.</p><p>
  <em> - put more blood in him? I've heard of that, it's been done before!</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Too risky. It's an imperfect science, sometimes it doesn't work. ...I don't know, Laurens! No one does. It could kill him.</em>
</p><p>Curious, he can smell the doctor down here at these depths. It startles him that he's even come to recognize that scent, as he hadn't consciously taken note of it before. But it's calming and smells of safety. Mint and woodsmoke and soap. This is what he latches onto, savors it, draws it in. He breathes slowly through his nose - he can breathe? - imagines he might get drunk off of that scent. </p><p>And just like that, he's not underwater anymore. </p><p>There's the hollow staccato of hoofbeats on cobblestone outside, the scent of pine from the hearth, and Washington's latest missive is laying before him. Lee is <em>irritated</em>, bordering on manic, he's - he's not supposed to be here, this isn't right, <em>where is he</em>? </p><p> </p><p>
  <b> <em>[York Island; Fall 1776]</em></b>
</p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>"Respectfully, sir, you must know you're putting me in an impossible position." </p>
  <p>Lee is struggling to contain his agitation, eyes darting to the decanter because it's the only thing that might keep him from unleashing the diatribe he's been wanting to give Washington since returning from the south. His teeth haven't unclenched since he returned north and it's evident in his speech - his jaw always too tight, always having him swallowing his words. </p>
  <p>"Something that's always bothered me about you is that you're so manipulative, General." </p>
  <p>Washington says this as he looks out the window, his back to Lee. This is calculated; he's making a point, establishing dominance, making a display of how little of a threat he considers Lee.</p>
  <p>"'<em>Respectfully</em>,'" Washington echoes with disdain. "Not 'with all due respect,' but 'Respectfully.' When you say 'due respect' it implies there is none due. You choose your words carefully and it makes you too blunt. Especially when they're words you don't mean. It's condescending, Charles."</p>
  <p>Lee recoils. No one calls him by his first name. No one but his sister, who is probably the only human left in the world that he gives a fuck about. Washington certainly hasn't earned this privilege, but he's such an arrogant imperialist that he seems to have claimed it, regardless. </p>
  <p>Lee pours himself that drink. Takes a good long time to savor it before answering. Makes a spiteful show of it, considering how early in the day it is.</p>
  <p>"So you would prefer I imply no due respect, then?" he answers blandly. He's so tired. Doesn't have the energy left to play politics or piss around with semantics and euphemisms. "Just say what you want to say, Washington."</p>
  <p>Finally, Washington turns. Regards Lee as though inspecting him for the first time. "You're too combative. It makes you a target. This...complicates things when you're among the most highly decorated officers in this rebellion. There's a certain calibre of decorum - "</p>
  <p>Lee slams his glass down with such force that it actually breaks. He ignores the cut that immediately starts pooling blood in his palm and advances toward Washington, stops short, stands there fuming, dripping blood onto the floor.</p>
  <p>"Decorum!" Lee hisses. "<em>Decorum</em>," he spits again, with considerable vitriol. "Are you fucking serious with this?" He advances one step closer. Clenches his fist around his bleeding palm. Washington looks caught somewhere between concerned and affronted, and it's a close enough likeness of fear that it's gratifying enough for Lee. </p>
  <p>"My life is on the line. Everyday you deny some of your most valuable soldiers a position in command so you can repeatedly throw me in the line of fire like some expendable <em>cannon fodder</em>! General Howe wants my head. Cornwallis has scouts out whose sole objective is to relay any suspected sightings of me back to him. Do you have any idea what they'll do if they find me? If I'm so important to your enterprise, what, then, becomes of your little revolution when I'm captured because of your irresponsible decisions?!"</p>
  <p>Washington exhales heavily, eyes hardening as he settles a blistering glare on Lee. "General," he says tersely, "You're bleeding."</p>
  <p>It's the politest of warnings.</p>
  <p>Lee flings his arm out impatiently, slinging blood in a magnificent spatter across the wall, across the paintings mounted there. Droplets hiss as they land in the fire. Lee takes another step forward.</p>
  <p>"You're too fortified here," he says, his voice dangerously quiet. "While you're capriciously deliberating among your officers on how to protect against an attack that won't come, Howe hesitates. He's planning something else. I keep telling you, a rogue unit will be more effective. Let me work in secret, deploy spies and gather intelligence, hit-and-run strikes, sabotage their - "</p>
  <p>"Lee, stop this. You are not a mercenary, no matter how much you wish to be one. We're not having this discussion again. Stay posted here, command your troops. And answer my call when I need it."</p>
  <p>It's a remarkably profound slap in the face. Strange, how Washington sanctions all of this behavior in his golden boy Hamilton, but any time a shiny target is needed, it's Lee he pushes into the line of fire. Lee fumes, inspects his hand, clenches his jaw as he watches the wound flex and open grotesquely. It's worse than he'd thought; it may hinder his ability to hold a gun for a while. He yanks his handkerchief out with a flourish, letting it audibly whip the air before wrapping it tightly around his hand.</p>
  <p>Then he bends slightly at the waist - the most insincere of courteous bows - and replies, "I remain your most sincerely devoted humble servant, sir."</p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>Cool fingertips are at his brow. It's so divinely pleasant. His whole body is clammy, somehow too hot and too cold at the same time, too sore. He has the vague notion that he's been stripped completely naked, but he's mercifully covered with a heavy blanket. The bed linens are soft and smell fresh. There's no damp pool of blood beneath him, soaking the sheets and growing cold against his trembling body. He may have been moved to another bed, he feels his positioning has changed. </p><p>He tries to shift a little to get more comfortable, but it's as though he's weighed down by bricks. Even his eyelids are too heavy to open, as hard as he tries to force them. There's a bitterness on his tongue that suggests he's been force-fed more laudanum. That's when he notices the pain has receded to a dull throb again; still unmistakably there, but it's more of a persistent discomfort, a nagging companion that reminds him he's still alive. Unfortunately. </p><p>The fingertips at his brow migrate to his throat, momentarily press into his pulse, then the palm of a hand is resting over his chest, keeping time with his breathing. </p><p><em>Please don't ever stop touching</em>, Lee thinks. It's his only source of comfort down here in the dark. </p><p>Then there's a high-pitched whine near his bed, the sound of toenails clipping against the hard floor, and Lee recognizes the presence of his dogs. He feels the gentle weight of a slender snout resting on his thigh, a wet nose nudging at his arm, and somewhere in the labyrinth of his dreams, he allows himself a small gasp of grief. So Laurens was able to corral Petra and Ursula after all. </p><p>They aren't the same dogs that were with him on the advance to Fort Duquesne so many years ago, but were bred from those same hounds. It had been a strong litter; Lee imagines he might have made a career of breeding prized dogs for royalty if he'd not chosen the military as he had. </p><p>He wants so desperately to reach out and stroke their heads, but his limbs are dead weight. </p><p>
  <em>Have you ever killed a man, Doctor?</em>
</p><p>Lee's heart rate ticks up. Laurens is still here. Lee wishes he was lucid enough to respond but he's paralyzed, trapped in the prison of his own body. Too far under to reach up and break the surface. He has no choice but to listen, to discreetly absorb information whispered in confidence. There's no guarantee he'll retain any of this later, anyway. If he survives.</p><p>But the doctor is notably silent. Maybe he shakes his head, but Lee doubts it. </p><p>
  <em>It changes you. The first time is always the most profound. But it haunts you, forever. And then every time after that, no matter how many men you've killed. Even when it's the enemy. Whether it's on the battlefield, or...someone you know. It's something you have to live with for the rest of your life. It's unbearable. Even if they don't die, simply shooting a man is - </em>
</p><p>There's a scuffling of boots, slow and measured, and a muted rustling, like the brush of a comforting hand smoothing over a shoulder. </p><p>
  <em>Go home, Laurens. Get some sleep.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>But what if he...can't I just sleep here?</em>
</p><p>What follows is a deflated sigh that sounds like a concession. </p><p>Lee puzzles at why Laurens cares so much. This is what he wanted, isn't it?</p><p>The last conscious thought he has before plunging back into darkness is that Laurens's confession about killing a man isn't something Lee can relate to at all.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b> <em>[Basking Ridge; Dec. 1776]</em></b>
</p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>"I have so frequently mentioned our situation, and the necessity of your aid, that it is painful to me to add a word upon the subject. Let me once more request and entreat you to march immediately."</em>
  </p>
  <p>Lee peruses over Washington's latest summons with considerable distaste. His annoyance with the man has reached its zenith, but against his better judgment, Lee reluctantly followed orders and began marching his troops. </p>
  <p>Now he sits at a shadowed corner table in White's Tavern, accompanied only by his aides and a particularly formidable security detail; a group of men just as ruthless as he is. The bulk of his troops are stationed a few miles away - he's not about to endanger them while he rests up and scouts the area. </p>
  <p>There's a fretful pressure churning under his ribs, his throat is tight; he stares listlessly at his untouched food and opts for his whiskey instead. His stomach hurts from not eating, but there's no way he'll keep anything down right now. He's a nervous wreck, he shouldn't be here. He has the paranoid suspicion that Washington is throwing him to the wolves intentionally, perhaps in a selfish attempt at getting rid of competition. This place is crawling with Loyalists out for revenge against defectors like Lee, and Washington knows it.</p>
  <p>He downs his whiskey in one swallow and closes his eyes, tries to regulate his breathing. His hand keeps reflexively lighting on his pistol concealed beneath his coat, the hilt of his saber. An unconscious gesture to comfort himself, compulsively checking to see that they're still there. </p>
  <p>He taps into his confidence from Fort Sullivan, recalls the abject terror on General Clinton's face every time the man turned up and Lee just happened to be there, haunting him, dogging him for several hundred miles of coastline. From New York to Virginia to Cape Fear, Lee's orders to watch the motions of the British had them crossing paths enough times to cause Clinton a considerable amount of distress. Like a demon occupying his nightmares, only Lee had been a persistent shadow one couldn't wake up from. </p>
  <p>This was Lee's area of expertise; warfare of the mind, getting in the heads of the enemy until they broke under duress and got careless.</p>
  <p>Lee wouldn't be so good at it if he wasn't so finely attuned to the nuances of terror and the physical and emotional manifestations it engendered. It's the only reason he considers his intimate relationship with his own collective traumas to be more of a boon than a hindrance. He's learned so much from it and turned it into a weapon.</p>
  <p>Thinking about this helps. He draws a slow breath, feels his heart calm slightly. The courtesan at his side leans in and nips at his ear and he welcomes it a little too enthusiastically, tilts his head into it, gives a sharp hiss as she rolls his earlobe in her teeth. Her hand is on his arm, wrapping around his shoulder, squeezing firmly. She makes some sound of giddy approval at the firmness of his muscles, scoots in closer. She smells so enticing, her skin is soft and warm. There's a pronounced twinge in his groin, his cock stirs eagerly in his breeches, and he anticipates a gratifying night of stress relief. He certainly needs it. </p>
  <p>God, he needs it. He's impatient, already rising from his table, turning to give instructions to his aides so he can scurry off to bed. He can't wait any longer.</p>
  <p>He leans in to discreetly relay orders in his aide's ear when he sees a familiar face over the man's shoulder, and there's something in the way the stranger meets Lee's eyes that gets the thunderstorm roiling in the center of his chest again.</p>
  <p>"Shit," Lee hisses. His eyes dart around the room, assessing exits, potential improvised cover, other familiar faces he might not trust. "That man just recognized me -- don't look," he orders quickly, just as his aide begins to turn. Lee casually averts his own eyes to another courtesan across the room, manages to pull it off like a benign glance at a face that means nothing to him. "He's a Loyalist, he's liable to relay information about my whereabouts to the enemy."</p>
  <p>As though to underscore this assumption, the Loyalist rises from his seat, and Lee's eyes fix lethally on his back as he leaves. </p>
  <p>"Calmly," Lee demands through clenched teeth, "follow him. I'll go out the back, intercept him from the other side."  He whirls around on his heel, presses a hefty pouch of coin into his companion's palm. "Retire to my suite. Have whatever beverage you prefer sent up. I'll join you shortly."</p>
  <p>Coat twirling dramatically around him, he spins around and hastens toward the servants' entrance, bursting out into the darkened alleyway with a renewed enthusiasm that's difficult to contain. The adrenaline is too high for him to feel fear or nervousness now. His objective is too urgent, his need for satisfaction too intense. He relishes every opportunity to fell a Loyalist. He's come to despise them so much these days.</p>
  <p>His pace slows on instinct, rolling each step heel-to-toe to soften his footfalls. He can do this in his sleep. He's hunting the enemy in the Balkans, in the Allegheny Mountains, stalking General Clinton through Hampton Roads. It's as if he slips into some other plane of existence when he's like this, becomes some animal whose sole objective is to hunt.</p>
  <p>There's a flash of former days, back when his coat was red rather than blue, an unbidden memory flitting through the foreground of his consciousness. He's creeping up on a rebel informant before she can pass along the secrets just whispered in her ear, the note pressed into her palm, and he's snapping her neck before she can ever register his presence. Her small body falls limp against his chest as he unceremoniously drags her away. Such a tremendous waste. She'd been undeniably beautiful, and certainly an effective spy as well. </p>
  <p>So he has his regrets. He's killed so many people. </p>
  <p>But it's part of the job. He can't think about that now. He tamps the memory down, buries it among so many other skeletons.</p>
  <p>Lee smells the man's piss before he sees him. He rounds the corner, spots his aide a few meters down the street, hiding in the shadows, prepared for the guy to make a run for it. </p>
  <p>There's the offending Loyalist, back turned as he relieves himself against the fence.</p>
  <p>Lee at least gives the guy the dignity of tucking himself back into his breeches. Then he doesn't even process his actions, just moves on instinct, pure muscle memory. Lee's done this dozens of times before. Fingers sliding down his thigh, wrapping around the handle of the knife holstered there, drawing it silently. </p>
  <p>The Loyalist reacts as soon as he feels an unfamiliar heat at his back, but it's too late, he's too slow. The blade is drawn across his throat, his blood painting a dark mural across the fence. </p>
  <p>Such an unfortunate way to die. Lee watches him collapse, grasping uselessly at his throat, wide eyes pleading for mercy, help, comfort, anything. Lee stares emptily down at him as the life drains from him. When his body goes still, Lee glances to his aide, then nods to the body on the ground. He knows what to do.</p>
  <p>Lee kneels down, polishes his blade on the dead man's coat, then retires to his waiting companion.</p>
</blockquote><p>
  
</p><p>Everyone looks so forlorn. Everyone...<em>why are they all congregated here</em>? There's Washington, in all his regal glory, poised respectfully in his chair and looking so very magnificent in his attentive grief; Burr, stunningly handsome as always, looking particularly restless and standing in that assertive way he does, just slightly on the balls of his feet, always invoking the look of a glorious bird about to take flight; Laurens, slouched and defeated, a constellation of freckles and pouting mouth still so visible even though he tucks his chin and attempts to hide his face behind his hair; and Hamilton, even! Head bowed, the bruising of exhaustion under his heavy-lidded eyes, the hallmark of a man who hasn't seen a proper night's sleep since he left the Caribbean. </p><p>They're all so dramatically beautiful in their tragedy, all weeping for the sallow-looking man on the bed -</p><p>Lee realizes with a significant spike or horror that he shouldn't be seeing the room from this perspective.</p><p>"<em>No</em>," he breathes. "No, this isn't - "</p><p>He gingerly strides up to Washington, braces a hand on his shoulder, but the man doesn't react. Lee leans in close, inspects his face, desperate for some sign that at least his presence is sensed in some way, but all Washington expresses is a detached sadness. </p><p>Slowly turning on his heel, he desperately looks to Laurens, to Hamilton, to Burr. Says their names. None of them respond. They're clearly prepared for Lee to take his last breath any minute, and are curiously distraught about it. It's incredibly rich, considering how eager they all were to destroy his reputation, how much they all gloated in the prospect of getting rid of him before now. <em>It's so disingenuous</em>, Lee thinks. How incredibly tasteless. </p><p>Jones, meanwhile.</p><p>He's seated at the edge of the room, notably apart from the mourning crowd. Elbow resting on a table next to him, nose resting on his knuckle, the lower half of his face hidden behind his loose fist, as though he sits in deep thought. His eyes are glassy from the welled up tears that refuse to fall as he stares listlessly into mid-space. Lee feels...<em>some </em>kind of way about this, but he can't pinpoint precisely what. There's no way the doctor mourns for Lee, he understands this. Those are probably tears of frustration at his own failure, but surely not grief.</p><p>Lee takes careful steps toward him, as though he needs to be silent in a room filled with people who can't see or hear him, then kneels down, stares into the doctor's face.</p><p>Jones's eyes focus. </p><p>They move just a millimeter, <em>artfully </em>subtle, but Jones's expression doesn't change a bit, and he doesn't move a muscle. But his eyes fix most assuredly on Lee's face. This isn't wishful thinking. Jones <em>can see him</em>, looks straight at him, Lee is sure of it.</p><p>"Jones?" Lee whispers.</p><p>Lee swears he can see Jones's eyes harden. They don't shift again, but his focus is directed - the pupils dilate and contract just slightly. Jones is looking straight at him and doesn't even try to hide it. He doesn't make any indication to the room that something is amiss, either.</p><p>There's no time to appreciate it or make any sense of it. There's a glorious shimmer at the edges of Lee's vision, pinpoints of light that bleed through his surroundings like a sunrise through cracked glass, and Lee is plunged into murky depths again.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b> <em>[White's Tavern; December 13, 1776]</em></b>
</p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>The blankets are thrown back to the tune of a shock of cold air, exposing Lee and the naked woman curled against his side.</p>
  <p>Neither of them respond with the expected recoil of modesty, but rather sleepy annoyance. Lee is showboating, anyhow; he's confident with his body, knows how he looks naked. Anyone who dares to rudely awaken him this way can stand to be subject to his indifferent arrogance. </p>
  <p>"General." The halting tone belongs to one of his aides. "It's near ten. There's a James Wilkinson here to see you? Says he has a missive from General Gates. Shall I send for breakfast?"</p>
  <p>Lee groans and turns toward his side, nuzzling into the ample bosom of the woman draped over him. There's an annoyed sigh from the aide, and Lee reluctantly extricates himself from supple limbs and tangled sheets, rising from bed regally in all his nude glory in front of the increasingly impatient aide, who already has Lee's clothes ready for him, holding them out to be stepped into like some dutiful servant dressing his king.</p>
  <p>Moments later, the intrepid officer Wilkinson is seated across from Lee at the table in his suite, glaring at the bite marks and bruises peppering Lee's neck with considerable disgust. This was calculated on Lee's part, of course; he'd intentionally left his collar open for this meeting, always preferring to receive guests in a setting that made them uncomfortable. It's his way of disarming people on the first impression, ensuring the upper hand. </p>
  <p>It's also a little out of spite, admittedly. He'd have preferred Lydia - so callously referred to as 'that whore' by the visiting officer - to stay and dine with them. Working women of the colonies were providing a noble service to distressed soldiers during a time of war, after all. Lee preferred to extend the utmost respect and gratitude to them in return. Unfortunately, the matters to be discussed this morning were of a classified nature, and risks couldn't afford to be taken.</p>
  <p>The missive from General Gates is spread out before Lee, and he scans it with haughty annoyance as he picks at his food and hastens to pen his own response. Wilkinson is droning on about mounting concern over Lee's "conduct" and Lee treats the rebuke with the dismissive stoicism it deserves. </p>
  <p>"Rumor has it you killed a civilian," Wilkinson scolds. His voice is tight, disapproving, alarmed, all at once. "General Lee, I needn't have to remind you that murdering civilians is - "</p>
  <p>Lee slams a fist on the table, pointing threateningly at Wilkinson with his pen. "There are no 'civilians' among Loyalists. There are only traitors and criminals. And I needn't have to remind you that I outrank you by several degrees, and you'd do best to choose the next words you say to me wisely. Don't presume to lecture me on whatever arbitrary, naïve rubric of war you think is acceptable, child. Don't dare waste my time with that folly."</p>
  <p>Wilkinson balks at the condescension, visibly recoils and flattens his mouth into a straight line, but remains silent. He's aware of Lee's temper, as every soldier in this resistance is. They all know better than to provoke him. </p>
  <p>Lee resumes scribbling his response to General Gates, and Wilkinson may as well be invisible.</p>
  <p>"<em>Entre nous a certain 'great man' is most damnably deficient</em>," Lee mutters to himself as he writes, and Wilkinson takes such offense on behalf of Washington that he rises from the table and turns his attention to the window, looking to distract himself with minutiae so he doesn't have to tolerate Lee's rudeness.</p>
  <p>At that moment, he spots the British dragoons turning the corner, marching most assertively toward the tavern.</p>
  <p>Wilkinson takes a step back, a nervous breath shuddering out of him. "Here, sir, are the British cavalry," he says frantically. </p>
  <p>Lee's pen immediately pauses its scratching, his nostrils flaring angrily as he looks up. "Where?"</p>
  <p>"Around the house," Wilkinson responds, just as the dragoons file in a formation surrounding the tavern. </p>
  <p>Sealing off all exits. Ensuring Lee has no escape route.</p>
  <p>Lee signs the letter with a violent flourish, then slams his pen down and folds up the missive, shoving it toward Wilkinson impatiently. </p>
  <p>He ponders his security detail, which seems conspicuously absent at the moment, considering all of the dragoons are still standing and unharmed.</p>
  <p>"Where is the guard? Damn the guard, why don't they fire?!" Lee snarls, and he shuffles through a mess of bed sheets crumpled on the floor for his pistols, his saber, his trench knife. "Do, sir, see what has become of the guard," Lee orders Wilkinson, and at that moment Lydia and the barmaid from downstairs burst into the room.</p>
  <p>They're pale and visibly frightened, and strangely, their concern for Lee's safety is evident. Whatever manner in which he conducts himself toward the men and fellow soldiers in his immediate orbit, he curiously doesn't extend that same aggression toward the women serving him. Lee's associates in war wouldn't be privy to this, but he's an adequate lover and tips well. They hate to see him go.</p>
  <p>Wilkinson observes their fawning panic with a mix of bewilderment and revulsion. How obscene, that a man could be so revered on account of his cock. </p>
  <p>The women begin to stammer out suggestions on how they might hide him, but Lee's reaction is one of such distinct offense at any display of such cowardice that they fall silent and resort to desperate touches upon his arm, pleading strokes of his chest. He gently maneuvers them away from the door with apologetic hands about their waists, looking as though he suspects this may be the last time he ever knows the touch of a woman. He presses more coin into Lydia's hand, tips the barmaid generously. They're weeping too hard to notice. </p>
  <p>Wilkinson casts his eyes away. Gathers up his pistols from the table. </p>
  <p>"See to it that my message reaches its destination," Lee orders harshly over his shoulder. "Don't get yourself killed before it can be delivered, do you think you can manage that? Make arrangements for my dogs to be sent to my sister. They're going to take me."</p>
  <p>Wilkinson tucks the note away and hastens out the door. Lee slips out after him, peers out a window at the top landing, counts the men he can see from this vantage point. Wilkinson's a crack shot, and so is Lee. They're both particularly adept in hand-to-hand as well. But they're vastly outnumbered. Calculating the risks, Lee is already testing the give of the windowpane, anticipating how quickly he might pick off a few of the British from here without making too much noise to alert them beforehand. He's not going without a fight. They'll have to drag him out before he goes peacefully.</p>
  <p>Then a voice rings loud and clear from below:</p>
  <p>"If the General does not surrender in five minutes, I will set fire to the house!"</p>
  <p>Lee hesitates. His eyes glaze over as he thinks about last night. Teeth pinching into his neck, fingernails digging down his back, the soft give of a plush breast in his mouth. She'd been aggressive, but he'd fucked her like he intended to marry her. He knew it was all pretend, but that was the magic of it and he cherished it like he cherished every kill on the battlefield. </p>
  <p>Lee thinks of the charming barmaid - small but sturdy, a youthful face even though subtle streaks of grey are beginning to sprout through her sandy hair, all assertive sass when the men hound her too aggressively. He can't bear to think of the way she might scream, trapped in a burning, collapsing building.</p>
  <p>Outside, the British officer repeats the threat. </p>
  <p>Lee closes his eyes. Allows a single tear to trail down his cheek. He recognizes that voice, too. It's Tarleton - contemptible fiend, more savage even than Lee - an arrogant son of a bitch who is barely more than a boy. He'd been at Sullivan's Island as well, was probably among the spies deployed to the area that betrayed Lee's location despite his best efforts to eliminate all witnesses. Cornwallis sent that preening fop specifically to mock him, and Lee gets the message loud and clear. </p>
  <p>"Washington, you careless bastard," Lee whispers. "I told you this would happen, didn't I?"</p>
  <p>He tucks his weapons away. Doesn't bother doing up his collar or making himself presentable. </p>
  <p>Then boldly marches down and presents himself to the waiting officer, and a very smug-looking Colonel Harcourt. </p>
  <p>"Stand down, officers," Lee says, making eye contact with Tarleton, lingering coldly on his sneering face. "I'll come peacefully so long as you promise not to harm anyone in the house. They are innocent."</p>
  <p>Tarleton, looking very pleased with himself and self-important in his perfectly tailored green uniform, actually puffs his chest out and tilts his chin up like a petulant child, making the gaudy plume of his helmet bob frivolously. It's the misleading innocence of his youthful face that makes it so punchable, Lee thinks. </p>
  <p>But Lee has come to know a lot about this foul urchin that most don't; most notably, that the lieutenant and his men regularly force themselves on local women because they'd never manage to get one into their bed willingly - something with which Lee could never relate. It's most of why Lee will never truly be threatened by this man-child. Lee returns a sneer of his own, which causes the smirk on Tarleton's face to slowly fade. </p>
  <p>"Here is the General, he has surrendered!" he shouts.</p>
  <p>The announcement is followed by multiple cries of victory and the blare of the trumpet, which Lee suspects is intentionally sounded as close to his ear as possible.  </p>
  <p>Defeated, no hope for his future, Lee lets them take him.</p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>Voices are swirling above him, a tedious, continuous buzz that he can't quite process. He tries to separate them from one another, assign names or faces to the familiar sounds, but he feels heavily drugged. Probably is. The only sound he can fully recognize is that of even breathing from somewhere beside him; Petra and Ursula must be curled up at his bedside, refusing to leave their master.</p><p>It's the fresh scent of the doctor that spikes Lee's awareness, drags his mind into lucidity. Lee recognizes his touch instantly, the delicate but dispassionate press against his brow, his pulse. It shocks Lee on a disturbing level, how much he's come to treasure that touch. It's become a familiar anchor in the void, even during times when Lee was too far under to consciously notice it. </p><p>Gradually, he comes to perceive the distinct voice of Washington among the ambient noises assaulting his space, and he swears he feels his blood boil at the sound. The man's presence offends him so, it's so insincere. </p><p><em>Lee's only error was being born in the wrong time</em>, Washington is saying to someone. Possibly Laurens, or maybe even the doctor. <em>Men like him were only ever meant for the battlefield. He'd have been much more at home as a Roman centurion. He never joined the rebellion because the cause appealed to him; he just needed another war to give him purpose, always chasing conflict. This one was just the most convenient within his proximity.</em></p><p>Oh, and that's rich, isn't it? If that were true, Lee very well could have continued fighting it from within a red coat. Washington knows this, besides; wasn't he also there in the Allegheny Mountains, fighting alongside Lee under Braddock's command? That presumptuous son of a bitch. As if Lee hadn't been one of the primary pamphleteers that inspired the colonists to persevere their resistance after the tea incident. Hamilton's the one that gets all the credit for his pretty words, but Lee's own skill isn't to be overlooked. That Lee had thrown such great passion behind favoring the colonies' grievances against the British, only for Washington to dismiss it as Lee recklessly chasing a fire. How insulting.</p><p>The Roman centurion bit was pretty inspired, though. That part rings a little true.</p><p>Lee drifts through muddled reality, too aware of the slow beat of his own heart, listening to the buzz of voices, the measured steps of boots coming and going, the rustle of the doctor's nimble movements around him. He might have spent just a few hours or a few weeks floating in a suspended twilight that was nothing but the screaming pain of his sore muscles for having been immobile for too long, the sheen of sweat that is continuously wiped from his body and brow, the pulse of the hole in his side that feels as though it flexes and grows constantly. </p><p>Until eventually he realizes that his eyes are open. </p><p>He isn't sure how long he's been gazing at the ceiling. He sees the tall snow drifts out the window in his periphery, and there's someone seated at his side - </p><p><em>It's that woman</em>. </p><p>It's that pretty informant from all those years ago, the one whose neck he snapped when he still wore a red coat.</p><p>She's smiling a dazzling smile at him, her long, feathery lashes brushing the tops of her cheekbones as she blinks slowly down at him. </p><p>Lee realizes that the room is still all shimmery in the way it was when he'd seen it from his impossible vantage point, watching all his colleagues in all their performative grief for him. Perhaps this is it, then. Perhaps he's dead already.</p><p>The informant laughs and gracefully produces the note that had been pressed into her palm on that unfortunate night Lee murdered her. She presents it with a flourish, folded neatly and tucked between her two fingers, though she holds it just out of reach should Lee grab for it. He's not about to take that risk anyway, too keen to take the bait - Lee can sense in the most visceral way that this woman is a harbinger of death. She represents something that cannot truly be fathomed by the crudeness of a human mind, so it presents itself to Lee in the form of this woman. </p><p>She sighs down at him, her smile fading into an expression that is tragically sincere. "It's time," she says darkly. "I've come to collect you." </p><p>Lee panics, and he certainly doesn't <em>feel </em>close to death, not in the way his heart jolts abruptly, not in the way an alarmed static tingles beneath his skin, hot pinpricks crawling all over. </p><p>She laughs again, and it's so full of mirth that it feels like mockery. "I jest," she says between chuckles, "it isn't time for you, yet."</p><p>This doesn't bring the relief one might expect, but rather a flare of anger. </p><p>His hand shoots out, wraps around her neck, squeezes tight. It's useless, of course, because he's afflicted with that weak, sluggish dream-motion that plagues everyone in sleep; and also because she isn't real. Just a manifestation of his own guilt, haunting his delirious mind.</p><p>The shimmer fades, the dream-like haze clearing into dreary grey punctuated by firelight. </p><p>The woman is gone, and instead it's the doctor whose throat is caged in Lee's hand, and he couldn't look more bored about it. It's a little striking how much he favors Tarleton in this moment, his expression smug and haughty even in the face of what should be a threat, dark eyes glittering with cold amusement. </p><p>"Well, look who decided to rejoin the living," Jones says as he wraps a firm hand around Lee's wrist to maneuver his arm back down. "For all it's worth, if you're looking to strangle someone with any modicum of efficiency, you want to go for the bone positioned just here," he instructs, and he presses his thumb into the fleshy underside of Lee's chin, then drags it down to just above his Adam's apple. He applies just enough force for Lee to sense the potential danger, the tenderness of the spot he indicates, then relents, but his thumb lingers long enough for it to feel strangely intimate. All Lee can do is drowsily blink up at him.</p><p>Normally, Lee might take offense at being tutored on something he should already know, but the mere touch of Jones's thumb on the sensitive flesh of his throat is enough to make him dizzy and subdued. After all, it was this gently lethal touch that Lee came to cling to in the dark. He realizes on some primal level that he's come to subconsciously rely on it, to the point where he's starting to crave it.</p><p>It's not an entirely irrational response, either. The doctor has been the only constant since Lee was shot, the only one who has continuously been by his side. Even now, all of Lee's mourners seem to have left. <em>Given up on him</em>. It's puzzling, since it seems they were all just here moments ago. It isn't lost on Lee that being this close to death may have something of a time lapse effect. </p><p>But Jones has been persistently reliable.</p><p>The first impulse that occurs to Lee is a disorienting disbelief that he's even still alive. "What did you do?" he asks stupidly. It's so uncharacteristically ineloquent for him.</p><p>Jones withdraws his hand, quirks an uncomprehending eyebrow. </p><p>"How did you do it?" Lee tries again. "Keep me alive."</p><p>Jones tilts his head slightly, as though pondering the answer. He's still wearing that marginally amused expression, as though even <em>he's</em> surprised Lee is still alive. "I did absolutely nothing," he answers. "It would seem you're too stubborn to die even when you're trying your hardest to do it. Either that or whatever entity is waiting for you on the other side isn't quite prepared to tolerate you just yet."</p><p>What a cruel thing to say to someone who still might be on his death bed. But Lee doesn't have the energy for indignation. Even if he did, he might have laughed. It was a morbid sentiment, but clever, Lee must admit.</p><p>"I thought you - "</p><p>Lee gasps, already out of air, has to rest mid-sentence.</p><p>" - thought you weren't a man of faith."</p><p>Simply speaking is so exhausting. He still feels like the very life in him is fading.</p><p>Jones offers a dismissive shrug of one shoulder as he folds the blanket back and inspects the dressing over Lee's wound. "People use metaphor for humorous purposes, occasionally." </p><p>It's meant to be condescending, but Lee doesn't miss the halting nature of his tone, the way Jones shutters himself behind dry wit and surliness so he doesn't have to expose his true emotions.</p><p>"You saw me." </p><p>"Pardon?" </p><p>Jones is so good at this. He doesn't even flinch. Maintains the stony mask of apathy as he presses his fingertips into the area surrounding Lee's wound, looking for discoloration, signs of infection. </p><p>"I - " </p><p>Lee stops, searches for the right words to even describe what happened to him. It was such an ominously transcendent experience in the moment, but now he's bound by the vulgar limitations of speech, and there are no spoken words that might do justice to it without it sounding absurd or making him seem nauseatingly lachrymose.</p><p>And perhaps this is why Jones feigns ignorance; like Lee, he finds empowerment in engineering uncomfortable situations. He intends to force Lee into saying it out loud, apparently. It's <em>almost </em>effective; if Washington or Laurens were still here, Lee would be reluctant to expound on it. Possibly Burr as well. But now that they're alone again, Lee isn't about to sacrifice an opportunity to confront Jones with something he's clearly committed to avoiding.</p><p>"I had...departed," Lee says, pensively testing the feel of the words on his tongue. "But you know this, because you saw me. Wandering around outside my body. I daresay you might have expected it, considering how premeditated your avoidance seemed in that moment. This kind of thing has happened to you before. And it unsettles you deeply."</p><p>Lee's body jerks when a significant twinge of discomfort flares in his side as Jones probes his wound. He gets the impression he's being rougher than usual in order to deliver a point, but Lee isn't about to surrender to it. He just clenches his teeth, tolerates it, and fixes his eyes defiantly on Jones, who is a little too intently focused on Lee's side. </p><p>"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," Jones says dryly. </p><p>"I think you do."</p><p>The hinge of Jones's jaw flexes just slightly, a barely perceptible twitch under the light dusting of stubble there. Lee can easily see the pulse throbbing at the base of his throat, can see each little jump beneath the skin, and he can't help but fixate on this, makes a shameless display of appraising him. His intention is to make Jones crack, to coax some semblance of unease into that hardened expression, any emotional tell whatsoever, but Jones doesn't give an inch. He's practiced in this, and Lee finds himself too easily hypnotized by the man's resolute detachment. </p><p>Soon Lee's mind is wandering too easily, preoccupied with the overwhelming urge to warm his lips against that throat, to savor the way that pulse would feel in his mouth, to reach up and brush that alluring curtain of hair back from the doctor's brow just to see how he'd react.</p><p>Lee retreats from the notion as soon as it forms. </p><p>This is a potentially dangerous train of thought, and it's distressing in how naturally it had occurred to him. </p><p>He's never been attracted to another man before. Earlier he'd been able to dismiss his idle frigging as the result of residual adrenaline, but it's impossible to deny now, impossible to make excuses. This doctor has bewitched him somehow, and he frantically tries to unpack where this is all coming from, why it's so abrupt. He invokes memories of the women he's bedded, the way he felt when he fucked them, held them, danced with them.</p><p>There's still an excited little flutter at these memories, a distant pinch of arousal. </p><p>But now there's this, too. </p><p>He's torn between digging his heels in against these urges or continuing his habit of breaking all the rules despite the risk, and indulging the impulse. His reputation is unrecoverable, and it's not exactly like he has anything left to lose.</p><p>Lee becomes gradually aware that Jones has ceased tending to his side and is openly staring at him, an unnerving sobriety in his gaze as though he can see right into Lee's thoughts. Jones's face is still remarkably dispassionate, ever the avatar of aloof lassitude. Was there something incriminating in the way Lee had been gazing at him? Lee refuses to feel embarrassment. He owns his worst impulses and apologizes for nothing. </p><p>Jones leans forward then, frames Lee's face in his hands, thumbs resting on his cheekbones. He tugs gently at the flesh beneath Lee's eyes as though bracing him in place, holding his eyes open so he might inspect his pupils, but Lee's emotionally compromised mind parses more to it than that. </p><p>Consciously, he realizes that this is a doctor, and the things doctors have to do to you often feel very intimate because human bodies are fragile, and human minds are vulnerable during convalescence, the romanticism of it is counterfeit,<em> it means nothing</em>; but fundamentally, Lee considers there's some deeper meaning there. It's an irrational concept and Lee knows it, but he indulges it to comfort himself anyway.</p><p>"General," Jones says solemnly, "you're spiraling."</p><p>Why is he whispering, though? Why do his eyes seem to soften as they fix earnestly on Lee's? Any other person might have glanced away, but Lee doesn't dare, not on his life.</p><p>"Why do you care?" Lee whispers back. "Didn't you say yourself that I deserved this?"</p><p>Jones releases him, sits back. There's a pleased smirk curving his lips that quickly vanishes as his eyes go briefly vacant, as though something dreadful has just occurred to him. </p><p>"Because I'm not trained in treating ailments of the mind, Lee. And I tend to have several disagreements with the barbaric manner in which the hospital for the insane conducts its practices."</p><p>The mood is quickly shattered with the coldly rational statement. Lee is desperate to get it back, though, desperate to feel something good again.</p><p>"So there's a limit to your sentencing of consequences for me?" Lee asks, and he keeps his voice soft, demure, makes it obvious this isn't a challenging question but one that conveys Lee's understanding that he's entirely at Jones's mercy. </p><p>The corners of Jones's mouth tighten. His expression is closed off, and there's a note of finality to the conversation. He reaches over to an adjacent bed, grabs another pillow, then leans in so he might prop it under Lee's shoulders.</p><p>"You need water," he says, and his voice has reclaimed that shuttered tone again. Clinical and impersonal.</p><p>Jones's immediacy is too infectious like this though, the heat of his body so overwhelming that Lee is firing purely on instinct as the doctor leans toward him. His arms impulsively wrap around Jones's back, locking him in place against his chest, and he doesn't care how Jones reflexively stiffens in his embrace, all Lee knows is that he really, really needs this. </p><p>Jones's ribs are motionless in Lee's arms, he's holding his breath, body stiff as he seems to gauge how to react to this. It doesn't occur to Lee how threatening this action must seem until it's too late - christ, Lee <em>whipped </em>him, <em>why did he do that</em>? - but now he's here and it feels too good to let go.  </p><p>"Sorry," Lee breathes, and he fears something especially maudlin is about to come tumbling out of him, so he just presses his mouth against Jones's shoulder, treasures the warmth against his lips. His cheek is resting against Jones's neck and he can especially feel that pulse drumming against him now, slightly elevated but strong, steady, and Lee just presses into it. </p><p>Mechanically, Jones shifts and takes a reluctant breath, then slides his arm around Lee, hand coming up to brace the back of his neck. It's not intended to be affectionate. Just a firm gesture meant to stabilize, hold him in place. Applying just enough pressure to pull Lee off of him and throw him backwards if the need arose. </p><p>But it's good enough. </p><p>"Sorry," Lee says again, and it sounds so trite even if he's never meant anything more sincerely in his life. "I just - need this."</p><p>"...I know." </p><p>Lee doesn't care that sitting like this aggravates the pain in his side, doesn't care if it reopens the wound. It's worth it even if it kills him. That familiar scent that was such a reliable source of comfort while Lee was floating through uncertain nothingness is now filling his nose, so intense and pleasant that it makes his mouth feel wet. He inhales it slowly, tries to be discreet about it so he doesn't seem vulgar, but he suspects Jones notices anyhow. He loosens his embrace slightly so it's not as overbearingly possessive, and maybe also because he senses he might be suffocating Jones a little. At least he's breathing steadily now, or trying to regulate it to spare Lee's feelings, perhaps. </p><p>"You must think me so weak," Lee mumbles. </p><p>"No," Jones says, and it's punctuated with a faint gust of breath across Lee's neck that feels so impossibly good that he has to suppress a shiver. "This is a customary response." </p><p>It's not the most touching of consolations, but Lee will take it. "To nearly dying?"</p><p>"Yes. Or any form of trauma, for that matter. You've not been touched in some time, I gather? Not like this, at least."</p><p>Hearing this addressed out loud does something to Lee, and suddenly his chest is too tight, his throat is closing up around the lump rising in it, and he clenches his teeth against the pitiful sound that threatens to burst out of him. He's not about to resort to <em>weeping </em>into this man's shoulder, so Lee only shakes his head. If he vocalizes anything now or even opens his mouth, it'll be nothing but a sob and he can't guarantee he'll ever stop. </p><p>"We should really get some water in you," Jones says at length. </p><p>Lee's arms tighten around Jones's ribs, an indication he's not ready to let go. He swallows several times against the persistent lump in his throat, finally finds his voice: "Please. Just let me do this a little longer."</p><p>Jones lets him. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Concession</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Chapter warnings: new tags added and the rating has been bumped up for disturbing imagery, violence, torture, sexual content, and generally dark themes. This is a sort-of Halloween chapter, so there's a fair amount of gross-out/body horror.</p><p>also formatting of flashbacks has been changed for better legibility.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><em>Com' io divenni allor gelato e fioco,<br/></em> <em>nol dimandar, lettor, ch'i' non lo scrivo,<br/></em> <em>però ch'ogne parlar sarebbe poco.</em></p><p><em>Io non mori' e non rimasi vivo;</em><br/><em>pensa oggimai per te, s'hai fior d'ingegno, <br/></em> <em>qual io divenni, d'uno e d'altro privo.</em></p><p class="">
  <em>Dante's Inferno; Canto XXXIV, v. 22-27</em>
</p><p class="">
  
</p><p class="">
  <strong> <em>[the prison ship HMS Whitby, Wallabout Bay; December 1776]</em></strong>
</p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>It's difficult to measure what keeps him from sleep; the bitter cold, that causes him to shiver and stiffen with such force that his muscles have become sore and weary from persistent tension, or the continuous, monotonous din of the groans of the sick and the dying. </p>
  <p>Not to mention the stench, so overpowering that it's a continued effort not to gag on it at every inhale. The stench had been the first thing he'd noticed on the sloop that transported him through the bay, hitting him square in the face through the barred windows of the hull as they approached. </p>
  <p>He'd choked on it, nearly vomited, and the guard presiding over him laughed his rotten, toothless laugh, his rancid breath mingling with the scent of death emanating from the ship so that Lee was forced to clamp his mouth shut and hold his breath. A difficult thing to do in these temperatures, with the frigid wind rolling off the water, forcing his lungs to seize and a horrid stabbing sensation assaulting his ribs. </p>
  <p>Perhaps the only consolation was that the stench could be much worse, had it been summer. It had been a dreadful realization, one more nightmarish thing to anticipate for his future, provided he makes it that long. </p>
  <p>The mere sight of the decommissioned hulk was enough to discourage one from even attempting a fight for his life. What had once been a majestic man-of-war was now a gloomy, decrepit ghost of a vessel, stripped of her masts and rigging, even the figurehead scrapped so that it might adorn some other ship. Her profile in the water as she sat rudderless on her keel at low tide invoked the image of a weary old beggar with slouching posture, broken and despondent under the weight of a long, cruel life. </p>
  <p>Such a tragedy, that such a stately relic of power and naval craftsmanship would be relegated to this dour, gaunt existence. If ships could feel emotion, this one might feel regret and outrage at being condemned to such lowly purpose. </p>
  <p>Being led down the gangway as he was escorted belowdecks, Lee had briefly assessed the conditions, a small inkling of escape forming in his mind. He knows his way around a ship, he's traveled extensively. Slipping around the guards might not be too difficult a task; being assigned as a guard to a prison ship such as this was almost as hopeless as being condemned to it as a prisoner. These men are weary, tired, and have to deal with the foul odor and despairing mood just the same. Their patrols are predictable, and anyone assigned to prison ship duty was typically far from an elite soldier; they have a tendency to get sloppy. </p>
  <p>The only problem being the freezing water, which might kill Lee on impact, and then the lengthy swim to shore. Lee had gauged the distance - discreetly, chin tucked as he peered through his limp curtain of hair - figured he might make it. He's fit, he's in his prime, he's got incredible endurance. He might just make it under cover of night, and honestly, risking the lethal icy waters is a worthwhile exchange for the fate he's just been consigned. </p>
  <p>But then there was the process of navigating the shore without being spotted, and making the dangerous journey through British-occupied territory without ever being intercepted. Brooklyn is teeming with Loyalists, and slipping through Tory country undetected - especially as a highly decorated Continental officer and British defector - was an even more impossible task than swimming to shore in freezing waters. That alone made it not worth the risk.  </p>
  <p>The moment he'd been shoved belowdecks and saw the squalid conditions of the prisoner accommodations, he'd dismissed any alternative plans of mutiny. Even though prisoners outnumbered the guards twenty to one, almost none of them even had the strength to walk. Surrounded by emaciated bodies, fragile skin pulled grotesquely taut over skeletal frames, covered in blisters and oozing sores, twitching and scratching at infected flesh, Lee had darkly mused he'd stepped into a living Bosch painting. The British treated their livestock better than this.</p>
  <p>But it swiftly became apparent why he'd never heard of anyone escaping a prison ship. </p>
  <p>Now, he has nothing but the wails of the infirm and incoherent ravings of delirious, dying inmates to accompany his panic. Outwardly, he's maintained a somewhat convincing appearance of calm. He's detached himself as much as possible from the main body of prisoners, but it's difficult; the space is cramped and there are too many of them. But among other prisoners, his reputation precedes him even here, and he made it very clear upon his arrival that anyone coming within arm's reach of him had a high likelihood of losing that arm. He doesn't like the idea of using violence against someone weaker than him, but he'll kill a man if he has to. To spare his own life. </p>
  <p>He leans the back of his head against the bulkhead, closes his eyes, tries to regulate his breathing. He hasn't had a satisfying breath since he arrived here, forced to breathe shallowly lest he gag on the tainted air. It's nigh impossible when the tendrils of panic are constantly constricting his ribs. </p>
  <p>Nearest to him, a teenage boy lies curled on his side, shaking and sobbing as he gingerly protects his hand, which he holds curled against his chest. He's the latest in escape attempts, the plan aborted swiftly because it turns out he wasn't the strongest swimmer. As he'd clung to the gunwale, a guard had struck his hand so hard that it split it open down to the bone, having sliced his hand partially in half between the middle and ring fingers. It's swollen and discolored, and the ripped flesh around the pulpy mass of exposed tendons already smells putrid and infected. </p>
  <p>He might have survived the mutilation of his hand, but the bayonet that was thrust through his ribs when they'd hauled him back on board has had him steadily bleeding out since he was thrown back down here. The deck beneath him is soaked, his grimy clothes matted against his skin. Between sobs, he chokes on wet, sputtering coughs that are accompanied by flecks of blood. Lee wishes he could help the boy, but there's consolation in the understanding he'll be dead from his injuries within a day, mercifully free of any further torture. </p>
  <p>Somewhere aft, the guttural howls of a man who had been subject to a rather brutal keelhauling resounds across the deck. Every movement he makes is agony. Were he to survive his injuries, he'll be lame for the rest of his life. He was covered in lacerations when they'd dragged him out of the water, gaping wounds filthy from the heavily barnacled hull, his entire body permanently maimed. What had been done to him had him no longer resembling a human, and now he's been left in the dark to suffer in his last hours of life.</p>
  <p>Wet coughs punctuate the chorus of moans, accompanied by the hoarse heaving of vomiting, the nauseating wet slop of a dysenteric prisoner losing control of his bowels. </p>
  <p>Lee buries his nose and mouth in the sleeve of his coat, squints his eyes shut, tries to stifle the keening sound of nervous terror that shivers in the back of his throat. It's unbearable, it's enough to make him consider a single-handed mutiny just to be granted a swift death at the hands of a guard. Though that fate would be unlikely; the guards are aware that death is too lenient a sentence for rebels, which would account for all the mutilated prisoners left very much alive. Torture was thought to be much more effective of a deterrent.</p>
  <p>Lee recognizes the con for what it is - make conditions as untenable as possible, and there's an opportunity to incentivize recruitment. The strategy here being that the guards could make all this suffering go away so long as one pledges their loyalty to the crown. The British are always desperate to increase their numbers, especially considering the most sought-after commodity for them right now was manpower for their fleet of ships. Life in the British navy was less than palatable, volunteers were scarce, and it would seem their prior methods of getting locals drunk and abducting them once passed out had begun to bear less fruit. Either that or the locals started catching on to the ruse and stopped trusting the British as drinking buddies.</p>
  <p>So far, it's not been very successful. Most of the rebels prefer a slow death to abandoning their country's cause. If Lee had any emotional energy left beyond terror, he'd be impressed at the fortitude of these men. He'd never have suspected so many of them to have such an awesome capacity for bravery and integrity. </p>
  <p>He's had his fair share of the political situation in England, himself; he understands more than anyone the desire to linger and die over returning to that corrupt hell. Trapped inside a world of diminishing returns for anyone that isn't royalty. His arguably pathological distaste for King George couldn't even be eclipsed by that of Washington and his closest associates, and the complete lack of a genuine meritocracy within the British military had Lee increasingly embittered. Naturally, his contempt for the British these days far outweighs even his most urgent instincts of self-preservation. </p>
  <p>Lee opens his eyes, struggling to see in the dark. Something has abruptly changed - the boy with the mangled hand has stopped crying. Lee hesitantly looks over at him, nudges him with his boot. The kid lies unresponsive on his side, unmoved from before, though his eyes are flat and sightless and a river of blood oozes from the corner of his mouth.</p>
  <p>He winces and bangs the back of his head against the bulkhead in frustration. It's hours until dawn, when the guard comes to supervise body disposal. The corpse will have time to fester and Lee is unfortunate enough to have a front row seat to its decomposition. </p>
  <p>Someone shuffles over to him then, a shadow in the already dim cabin casting over Lee in a way that startles him in his heightened state of distress. He plants his boots against the deck, frivolously skittering sideways against the bulkhead on the heels of his hands like a frantic crab fleeing a predator, desperate to free himself of the darkness as though it might poison him somehow. There's no real threat, though; it's merely one of the prisoners selected to collect and distribute their nightly rations, and he holds it out to Lee with a feeble, trembling hand.</p>
  <p>Lee has shrunk himself into a corner, nowhere left to escape, and he glares up at the withered man distrustfully, eyes darting to the ration of salted meat held before him. His lip curls with revulsion; the rations given to prisoners are left over from the provisions that had been condemned by the British navy. Scarcely a bit of fat on it, more salt than beef, nigh impossible to get one's teeth into it. Beyond that, it had been boiled in water drawn up from the side of the ship - incidentally, where the prisoners' waste buckets are dumped. It may as well have been simmered in blood and shit.</p>
  <p>He curls his shoulders inward, tries to make himself as small as possible. "Get that vile filth away from me," he snarls. </p>
  <p>He hasn't eaten in days, of course, but if he's going to be relegated to a slow death, he'll take starvation over dysentery. He's killed a lot of men, seen plenty of death, is acquainted enough with it that he knows there's no such thing as a dignified passing. Human bodies are inherently disgusting, there's no <em>dignity </em>in death. But it's far less of a torture to slowly wither away than to have your insides uncontrollably hemorrhaging out of you. </p>
  <p>The man hesitates, appears to be regarding Lee with either pity or concern or both. </p>
  <p>"I'm going to die anyway, just leave me in peace!" Lee snaps, and the man stumbles backward at the outburst before slinking away. </p>
  <p>He spends the next few hours drifting through restless, fragmented bouts of consciousness, too exhausted to stay awake but his mind racing too frantically to truly sleep. He thinks of Washington, still foolishly camped on the banks of the Delaware probably, and just as bereft of Lee's presence as he'd been before his demanding, careless orders forced Lee into this trap. </p>
  <p>Whatever Washington has been planning on that riverbank is likely something reckless and doomed to fail. Even Lee isn't aware of Washington's plans - everything is so shrouded in secrecy because it's the only way to keep damning strategies from falling into the wrong hands - but he can wager a guess that it involves transporting over two thousand men across an icy, foggy, sleeting hellscape under the delusion of an attempted sneak attack with little chance of success. It's enough to make Lee consider that the experiment of colonial independence has failed before it's had a chance to begin. </p>
  <p>"The best of luck to you, <em>Washington</em>," he mutters caustically to himself. </p>
  <p>It's such a dispiriting waste. The Continental Army had so much potential, but Lee doesn't see it holding out much longer. If Washington was desperate enough for Lee's assistance that he'd knowingly endanger Lee's life to get it, it's doubtful they can make much more progress without him. He can only hope the British victory will be swift and merciful, because with as much contempt as he has for both sides now, he can hardly stomach the torture the colonies will endure now as a result of their defeat.</p>
  <p>"Rebels, turn out your dead!"</p>
  <p>Lee starts out of his half trance at the first morning call of the sentry, blinking wearily through the beams of dull sunlight pouring through the barred gun ports. He's lost hours of time, though he hadn't exactly been asleep. This place has a dissociative effect about it, possessing a man's mind in a way that detaches him from himself. His gut somersaults as he dreads hauling the body of that dead boy up to the main deck and accompanying it to shore, which is a daily requirement of him as one of the few able-bodied prisoners. Then the body will be buried in a shallow mass grave along with any others that passed in the night. Every night it's at least about six. Sometimes more. </p>
  <p>Corpse duty has its morbid, hidden blessings, though. Namely, getting away from the foul ship, setting foot on land, and getting the privilege of breathing open, uninfected air. </p>
  <p>This morning, the body count is eight. The man who'd been keelhauled is among them. In the sunlight, the damage is much worse than it looked last night. An entire swathe of flesh spanning from his hip to his chest has been stripped away, exposing the muscle and yellowed tissue and a glimpse of bone underneath. Even in death, his face is frozen with the countenance of agony, lips drawn back in a teeth-baring grimace of suffering. </p>
  <p>There were two more deaths from the bloody flux. Their corpses are so predictably messy that a few of the limited blankets available around the deck are sacrificed to wrap them up and sew the bodies in to make them easier to handle when being lowered to the boat from the main deck. </p>
  <p>It's a frustrating chore maneuvering them up through the hatches, but Lee has done this a few times now, he's gotten the art down to it. </p>
  <p>The boat to shore is blanketed in silence. More out of exhaustion and the collective desire to savor the clean air over wasting breath on needless speech, than out of respect for the dead. The air is cruelly frigid, bone-chilling drafts slapping their faces, lungs seizing up on every inhale, but it's so much better than on the ship. So much better. </p>
  <p>Lee breathes in slowly, cautiously, tries not to get so greedy on it that it hurts his lungs. There's little cloud cover today, so at least he can feel the sun on his face, despite the sting of the breeze whipping off the water. His nose and mouth are covered with the cleanest strip of fabric he could rip from his shirt to tie around his face, in the hopes that it might protect him from the cold and the effluvia of diseased corpses. He just has to work extra hard to suppress the urgency to vomit should it hit him while he's disposing of the bodies. </p>
  <p>Already, this is a monumental task. Even before their boat scrapes up on shore, Lee can see the bleached, half-buried corpses peering up through washed-away loose sand. It turns out that a shallow mass grave so close to the shoreline is hardly effective. The moment the tide comes in, it washes away most of the turf that's been used to haphazardly cover the bodies. And now, with the ground so hard from the freeze, the turf will be much less pliable. </p>
  <p>Lee's fingers are frozen and numb within minutes of digging, his entire body stiff and aching from the chill. It's difficult to move efficiently, much less do any kind of strenuous labor. He avoids looking at the bleached, desiccated corpses around him, emaciated bodies tangled together like some multi-limbed monster out of a fairytale nightmare, glaring up at him with eyeless sockets through the dirt and frost as though accusing him of their fate. </p>
  <p>The usually fresh air seems to have been tainted by the abundance of death, which still festers even in these temperatures. Lee imagines he can still smell the prison ship even from here, as though the thing casts a blanket of disease and curses upon the entire bay by its mere presence alone. Still, it's a vast improvement from the stifling confines of the ship. At least he can catch a brief, satisfying breath on each purifying gust of wind, even as paralyzingly cold as it is. </p>
  <p>"Sometimes the guards allow us to grab a handful of turf to take back to the others," one of the prisoners is saying, and there's a delay before Lee realizes he's been spoken to directly.</p>
  <p>"Pardon?" Lee says, and his tone is tinged with impatience. He'd really not wanted to be bothered. He'd wanted this entire moment ashore to himself.</p>
  <p>"So they can smell it," the prisoner explains. "Have something unspoiled to hold to their noses so the stench of the ship isn't so bad. But it's difficult with the ground so hard right now, you see. It's mostly frost."</p>
  <p>Lee must be staring at him with a significant level of disgust, because the guy hesitates, then uncertainly shambles away. It <em>is </em>a particularly revolting notion; that life on that floating hell is so hopeless, a clump of moldy, fishy earth is a cherished privilege and a treasure. </p>
  <p>An unwelcome sting floods his sinuses. There's the achy tightening of his throat. If he allows the tears to come now, they'll freeze on his face and it'll likely draw the attention of the sadistic guards. So far, he's managed to keep his head down and remain relatively ignored. Most of these guards are low rank-and-files for the British navy; they won't immediately recognize him or the significance he bore to either army.  </p>
  <p>He turns to face the bay and looks longingly out at the drab, filthy water and the sun glinting off of the surface. With a pang of deep sadness, he acknowledges that he is going to die here, a highly decorated soldier among a bunch of nameless rebels who had never even been officially recognized as combatants. His body will end up in a shallow mass grave with the rest of them, decaying and entangled with all those emaciated wretches. Word may never reach his sister of what finally became of him. She never married; there's some bittersweet appreciation that she and his dogs will keep each other company after he's gone. </p>
  <p>Perhaps Washington will be able to ascertain what happened, given the unfortunate pattern of what befalls any Continental soldier that ends up captured, but no one will come tend to his remains. His name will adorn no headstone or memorial. There will be no one to whisper a benediction for him or pick up his bones before they're scattered out to sea. </p>
  <p>His morose meditation is immediately spoiled by the guard who pokes him roughly in the ribs with a stick, causing Lee to recoil from either pain or just a general aversion to being touched in his current predicament. His anger flares momentarily - he has the urge to react with his usual instinctive violence, but he wisely suppresses it, understanding that any retaliation will earn him a much worse fate than death. </p>
  <p>He hastens with the rest of the bodies, doesn't even bother thoroughly heaping the turf back over them because it will just wash away in a few hours anyway.  </p>
  <p>No one looks back at the shore on the return to the ship. Everyone seems even more dispirited than before, shoulders hunched and heads bowed as they avoid looking at the looming spectre of their prison. It's in a mechanical daze that he allows himself to be escorted back down the gangway and returned below deck, moving as though being piloted by some force outside himself, detached from his body. He's lost his sense of self, it seems. No more pride or purpose or autonomy. </p>
  <p>Eventually someone comes by again to offer him food. He declines it with a monotone and a bleary stare into mid-space, not even bothering to meet the eyes of whoever is distributing rations today. He does accept a small cup of water, which is mercifully drawn from the cask on the main deck that's shared with the guards, and far cleaner than the slop they boil the rations in. It's not nearly enough to sustain a man for long, and he'll have to ration it in tiny, unsatisfying sips throughout the night.</p>
  <p>Meanwhile, his stomach churns and aches relentlessly. It's so empty that it seems to gnaw at his spine, and he has to bend himself double in a near-fetal position to suppress the cramps of hunger. It's making him especially irritable, has him inclined to snap at every sound, movement, and benign disturbance around him. He's already much too fatigued for a man in otherwise good health, fighting spontaneous episodes of lethargy that wash over him out of nowhere, making him feel delirious and weak, distrustful of his own senses. He feels as though he's always sleepwalking, can't stand without stumbling, or sit upright for too long without dropping to the deck in a heap of exhaustion and surrender. </p>
  <p>Long after the ugly ochre light of winter sunset has faded and soft moonlight filters through the gun ports, Lee finds himself slumped sideways with his temple pressed against the grimy deck, never having realized he'd toppled over right where he sat. </p>
  <p>Someone is shaking him, a claw-like grip around his shoulder, a sunken face with imploring, yellowed eyes inspecting him with caution. </p>
  <p>"He's still breathing," the gaunt face says, and Lee doesn't have the energy to shift his gaze and look at the man directly. He just continues staring with numb, empty eyes at nothing. </p>
  <p>He'd respond if he could, snap some sharp rebuke to get the nuisance to leave his space, but his lips are too cracked, his tongue too dry and cumbersome to form words. His eyes remain motionless, unblinking. He imagines he can already feel himself slipping into that half state of existence between life and death. </p>
  <p>He'll never make corpse duty tomorrow. He'll never be able to follow the commands of the guards should they require something of him. He'll be especially punished now for being weakened. This is it.</p>
  <p>Just in front of him, a bloodied mess of a prisoner from an encounter with the cat-o'-nine-tails earlier this morning lies face down on the deck, his entire upper body naked save for a dirty cloth one of the other prisoners plastered to his back in attempt to stanch the bleeding. He'd smeared Lee with a fair amount of blood when he collapsed, but Lee never bothered to wipe it away. No point; every inch of his own clothing is too stained to make any difference at this point.</p>
  <p>Now the flogged prisoner's fingers claw at the boards beneath him, splinters catching under his fingernails, raking until they bleed and tear away, but he doesn't seem to notice, so eclipsed by the pain of his eviscerated back. He's been glaring longingly at the untouched cup of clean water next to Lee, and with Lee no longer a likely source of competition, his arm starts to subtly twitch toward the cup. </p>
  <p>The very movement alone reopens his wounds, gradually staining the linen red with fresh blood in the shape of his lashes, like an invisible hand delicately painting a replica of his cuts atop the cloth. The man's shout is cut off with a choked heave as he vomits right where he lies, in too much agony to even move his face out of the filth. After a while, he abandons the struggle for the cup. Then stops moving altogether.</p>
  <p>Lee doesn't bother to move, either. Just stares into the dead man's face as if it might be a mirror of himself in the very near future.</p>
  <p>More bodies are crowding him than usual, the other prisoners' collective apprehension toward him alleviated now that he's too weak to threaten them. It's natural instinct for everyone to congregate together, to share body heat in the lethal winter, even as dangerous as it is with the rampant disease. Furtive glances are stolen in his direction every now and then, a slight crane of the neck to inspect him where he lies, curiously checking to see if he's dead. He doesn't have it in him to make a gesture or movement of reassurance. </p>
  <p>When the morning call of the sentry comes again, Lee is so dazed that it doesn't even startle him. He's certain he never drifted out of consciousness, though. He's delirious with hunger and exhaustion, and he wonders what would happen if they mistook him for dead, wonders if they even bother checking too closely to make sure and --</p>
  <p>An inspired little thought blossoms in the back of his mind. </p>
  <p>It's enough to rouse him to alertness, but he doesn't stir, doesn't even blink. </p>
  <p><em>The guards never really check</em>. </p>
  <p>They never closely inspect the corpses, or check for a heartbeat. They just see a limp, bloodied body and apathetically observe its disposal. </p>
  <p>He's already smeared with the other guy's blood. The body is rank, has been dead for hours and is quickly growing stiff and cold. Lee is especially aware of his breathing now, or rather his strained attempt not to. The cold makes it difficult to fake it - the vapor from his breath is easily visible. He alternates between holding his breath and taking quick, subtle gasps of air when he's certain no one can see, and when the guard observes the body across from him and shoves it onto its back with his heel, Lee remains still, eyes vacant, chest unmoving.</p>
  <p>Then the guard roughly nudges Lee's shoulder with the toe of his boot - once, twice, followed by a vigorous shake. "This thing is dead," he says, and motions for one of the others on corpse duty to come haul Lee up, along with his dead companion. </p>
  <p>The prisoner that approaches eyes him skeptically, and Lee already sees the doubt in his face, can see him on the verge of not buying the act.</p>
  <p>The guard is standing so close, meanwhile. The handle of his knife protruding from his boot, easily within arm's reach. So careless. </p>
  <p>That soldier's instinct that Lee has always relied upon - that sentient, uncontrollable thing inside him that was so ready to die, that seemed to have abandoned him days - weeks? - ago when he'd been consigned here, is suddenly coursing through his nerves with such renewed force that he doesn't deliberate on his actions, just lets his body respond on its own. That instinct possesses him completely, takes over his limbs, his movements too quick to register until it's too late, executed with mechanical precision.</p>
  <p>His hand darts out. </p>
  <p>Grabs the knife. </p>
  <p>Gouges the blade into the back of the guard's boot, slicing through the leather so that it splits his Achilles heel open. </p>
  <p>The guard goes down with a heavy thud that must have sent aftershocks across the entire deck. His shrill scream comes soon after, and Lee knows this will alert the other guards. He bolts upright, snatches up the flailing man, locks the guy's back flat against his chest, and dispassionately drives the blade across his throat so that his scream dies in a pitiful gurgle as abruptly as it began. A cascade of blood floods them both, burning hot and viscous.</p>
  <p>There's the rapid thump of approaching boots, and Lee is ready. </p>
  <p>It's difficult, what with the dead weight of a corpse - men are heavy enough as it is when they're still <em>alive </em>- and the deck is so slick with blood that it's hard to get solid footing, but Lee manages to haul himself to his feet along with the corpse.</p>
  <p>He sharply hurls the knife at the first face that appears on the deck, and the blade crunches into the man's forehead with startling accuracy. </p>
  <p>A rifle is fired, but Lee has the dead man shielding him. The body is pelted with lead shot, and won't hold up for long. Neither will Lee, for that matter - he's already feeling sluggish with fatigue, holding up the weight of them both.</p>
  <p>The other two guards who came to allay the situation are now preoccupied with the cumbersome task of reloading. Lee sneers at them, surprised that he has the energy for the hearty laugh that escapes him. Such amateurs - no wonder they were relegated to this hell of an assignment. Even the greenest rookie knows to stagger shots with his buddies to avoid getting caught with his pants down on a reload. Such a waste. It admittedly feels a little unfair. No challenge with these dolts, it takes all the satisfaction out of it.</p>
  <p>Lee lets his corpse-shield drop in a heap at his feet.</p>
  <p>Slowly advances on the two men. </p>
  <p>He's careful, stays well out of arm's reach - they still have bayonets - but they're panicking, which will make them sloppy. They're both still in mid-reload, and Lee calculates that even in his fatigued state, he can close the distance to them before either one can manifest a necessary change in their course of action. They're both young, too, probably victims of the British navy's tactic to get civilians drunk and unconscious, only for them to wake up while well out to sea and, as such, forcibly enlisted. They never wanted to be here.</p>
  <p>Now they won't have to be.</p>
  <p>Lee's eyes are so vacant, his expression so chillingly deadened when he glares down at the guard. </p>
  <p>His hand shoots out and closes around the guy's rifle, easily disarming the kid in one fluid movement. Gracefully spins the weapon into his own grip. Jabs the bayonet through his ribs with the dismissive ease of years of practice. </p>
  <p>He lets it linger there, allows the kid to sink to his knees, pleading face turned up to Lee as though asking for forgiveness. Lee savors the look of terror, regret, and agony manifested in those desperate eyes, allows the kid to really appreciate the face of his murderer, then swiftly yanks the bayonet out of him, relishing the heat of the blood spray over his chilled skin. He doesn't bother wiping the spatter from his face. Just leaves the guard a squirming, hemorrhaging mess on the deck, stepping over him with unceremonious grace.</p>
  <p>The other guard has readied his rifle again, though it's still unloaded. He's trying to seem as menacing as possible with the bayonet pointed at Lee, but Lee is equally armed, and far more experienced. The circumstances are far from a stalemate, and the kid knows it. He's trembling so hard that he can't even hold his rifle still. </p>
  <p>Lee levels a heavy-lidded gaze on the guard and stands there waiting, daring him to act. His own pilfered weapon poised with the disciplined steadiness of a career warrior. He has nothing left to lose. This will surely end in his torture and eventual death, but he finds some satisfaction in taking four British traitors out with him. It's worth it. So worth it.</p>
  <p>"<em>Not human</em>," the guard whispers on shaking breath. He's fixated, seemingly hypnotized into paralysis by the steady hollowness of Lee's black eyes, the remorseless recrimination there. He might be about to mutter a prayer, but can't form his trembling lips around it. </p>
  <p>Instead, the guard takes a tentative step forward, and it's still nothing but raw instinct piloting Lee - he really wishes this uncontrollable demon of id didn't always control him like this, he'd genuinely intended to show restraint on this one - and he reflexively hurls the rifle like a javelin at the first twitch of movement from the guard, the bayonet cutting through the air to pierce him cleanly through the throat. </p>
  <p>A stampede of more boots approaches. The rest of the crew will be intercepting him soon, and Lee's already expended the last of his surge of adrenaline. He's ready to collapse again.</p>
  <p>This was a mistake. He hadn't intended to do any of this, hadn't planned any of this or thought of the consequences, it was just another one of those impromptu episodes where his temper and his basest impulses commanded his body beyond his control, and now he's powerless to defend himself or his actions. </p>
  <p>Two officers materialize before him, the stock of a rifle making contact with his belly with a meaty thump. </p>
  <p>Lee doubles over with a choked grunt, and he's caught on either side by the officers bracing each of his elbows as he slouches between them, heaving with the struggle to reclaim the air that's just been punched out of him. The rhythm of a slow, arrogant footstep approaches him where he's restrained. He struggles to hold his chin up, to see who his executioner might be.</p>
  <p>Such an honor, that Cornwallis braved the filth of this prison ship to collect Lee himself. It's pretty flattering, actually - this sort of thing would typically be beneath him. That he's risked disease and subjecting himself to a moment's worth of the ship's unpleasant conditions is enough to get Lee's awareness perking up again. But why the fuck would Cornwallis be here at all? It's as though Lee's spontaneous outburst of rebellion summoned the general in an instant; it feels a little too convenient. Something is amiss.</p>
  <p>The general looks so pompous as he approaches Lee now, smirking as he reaches out to cup Lee's chin in his palm, tilting his face up to inspect it. He pushes Lee's hair back from his brow, turns his face into the beam of light angling through the gun ports, making certain of his identity. Lee winces against the glare, avoids eye contact as he petulantly tightens his jaw at being dismissively handled like a kid's toy soldier. </p>
  <p>A nauseating grin of pleased recognition spreads across Cornwallis's face.</p>
  <p>"Do you know who this is, gentlemen?" Cornwallis says. </p>
  <p>"A murderer," one of the officers says. "He should be hanged." </p>
  <p>Cornwallis chuckles. "Yes, he should. But he's valuable." </p>
  <p>He pauses, squeezing Lee's chin in his grip with a force that makes his jaw ache. "You know, the intelligence Tarleton relayed to us suggested you'd been killed upon capture," he says, addressing Lee now as if the guards aren't even there. "Corroborated by Harcourt, no less. I'd say they both had it in for you, that they'd allow this" - he gestures at their surroundings with his free hand - "to befall you. Certainly they wanted you dead. But it seems luck would be in your favor. Someone spotted you on the shore and relayed the information back to me. I'd be liable to punish my men for the lie, but they were vague enough in the report that it could be argued the details were merely misunderstood. You were never supposed to be here. You're wanted back in England to be tried for desertion. You know that, don't you?"</p>
  <p>Lee doesn't answer. He's still trying to catch his breath, still curling around the cruel pangs of his bruised, empty stomach. He'd been hit so hard, he wouldn't be surprised if he was bleeding internally. He just meets Cornwallis's eyes with a glacial fury, challenging him to lay whatever crimes the British top brass have manufactured for Lee at his feet. He officially resigned and there are plenty of former superiors that bore witness to it, who have documented record of it, no less. Not a single accusation should hold up in court. But the British tend to have no respect for protocol, and official reports tend to vary depending on who you ask and what kind of mood they're in at any given moment. Which is ironically part of what inspired this entire revolution.</p>
  <p>"Sir, just let us hang him on the main deck," one of the officers pleads. "Let us keelhaul him."</p>
  <p>The scathing glare Cornwallis sends him has the guard supporting Lee shrinking so dramatically that it causes Lee to stumble against him. </p>
  <p>"As much as I'd enjoy that," Cornwallis says, "General Howe will want this one. He'll be rather pleased to learn he's alive."</p>
  <p>The officer bristles. "He just killed four of our men!" he argues through clenched teeth.</p>
  <p>Cornwallis seems on the verge of knocking the guy out. "Then I suggest you make arrangements for their disposal and send word to their families," he says curtly. "And beyond that, it would seem they were expendable anyway, considering a disgraced, starved, and half-dead old soldier managed to dispatch them single-handed as quickly as he did. I'm sure you'll manage. Now get him onto the transport boat. General Howe is expecting him posthaste."</p>
  <p>The "old" comment ruffles Lee a little - Cornwallis is older than <em>him </em>- but he hasn't the energy to react or respond. His testicles are just beginning to descend from that blow to his middle, he's just relearning how to expand his lungs again. When the guards begin to haul him off, he can't even manage to walk in step with them, so his feet drag pathetically along the deck between them. Doubtless Cornwallis is aware he's on the verge of collapse anyway and can hardly carry himself in this condition. </p>
  <p>His wrists are shackled the moment he's in the transport boat. As if he could do any more damage like this, but that incident with the four guards must have rattled everyone that witnessed the carnage. </p>
  <p>He's roughly heaped into a carriage once ashore. He helplessly slumps over onto his side, bound wrists held weakly in his lap. He can't even hold himself up, can't summon the stamina to make himself remotely presentable or dignified. He might be some inanimate cargo, someone's prized property exchanging hands. '<em>Valuable</em>' was what Cornwallis had said. He's not a living human to these people; merely an asset, a weapon. Perhaps he'll die on the way over, and an eagerly waiting Howe will be presented with Lee's corpse anyway.</p>
  <p>Lee finds some satisfaction in that. Finds some satisfaction in rudely disregarding the blood covering him and how much he's smearing it on the carriage seats. None of it is his own, but he's certain he looks perfectly ghastly, regardless. He rubs his cheekbone against the seat, presses his temple against the material as though it might offer some fraction of comfort. </p>
  <p>God, he just wants to sleep. He's so tired.</p>
  <p>Still inconveniently in the heart of Tory country, the carriage pulls to a stop in front of what looks to be a repurposed state house that the British seized and occupied, its opulent Georgian façade already making Lee feel considerably out of place. His very appearance might be considered offensive among these comfortable surroundings, but he's not about to apologize for what's been inflicted upon him. If they'd wanted someone more presentable, they should have been more conscientious of prisoner handling. </p>
  <p>The only thing that betrays the majestic accommodations as just another prison is the increased amount of guards stationed along the steps, flanking the doors and the carriage. Lee counts twelve of them. He knows that typically there wouldn't be this many men stationed around a mere state house, especially one where a commanding officer might be occasionally posted to conduct correspondence and, as such, not around often enough to necessitate this large of a security detail. </p>
  <p>Lee understands this is purely for him. A welcoming party of a dozen guards ready to restrain him should he act up again.</p>
  <p>He finds it more than flattering, that he frightens them this much. </p>
  <p>He stumbles between his handlers as they yank him out of the carriage, drooping feebly between them as they drag him up the steps. He doesn't fight them, but he doesn't help either. He just tucks his chin, glaring through the blood-dampened hair draped over his face at each sentry he passes. Even that must look intimidating, because Lee's contemptuous glance alone seems to visibly upset them. He must look like a manifestation of someone's nightmare made flesh. Making eye contact in this state must feel like an open threat. Which it is, a little bit.</p>
  <p>Inside the building, it's blissfully warm. He's reminded of just how cold he's been this whole time, a teeth-clenching, bone-deep chill that had become a dull, persistent discomfort once he'd made peace with the fact that this was a part of his life now. It's striking how pleasant it is when he'd been convinced he'd never feel warmth again. </p>
  <p>The back of his neck prickles at this; being afforded this small luxury alone has his suspicions tingling. He resolves not to trust a single ounce of charity extended to him here. Everything is a bribe, a prize dangled just out of reach to coerce him into complying with whatever it is they want from him. </p>
  <p>He stands in the entryway, keeping his head bowed as his eyes shift upward, lingering on the exits, inspecting the vaulted ceilings, squinting at the healthy fire crackling in the hearth, sweeping over the staircases flanking a balcony on the second level. The floors on the ground level are polished marble - likely imported from Italy, and incredibly expensive. He straightens his back a little, a symbol of spiteful pride at how much blood he's dripping on the immaculate flooring, smearing red boot prints in his wake.  </p>
  <p>A servant is there to greet them, who regards Lee with caution. He doesn't look as frightened as the guards - just apprehensive, like he's about to face a particularly daunting chore.</p>
  <p>"Show him to his suite, clean him up. <em>Thoroughly</em>. Have him ready to be presented to General Howe for this evening's supper," Cornwallis orders. </p>
  <p>Lee counts the steps up to the second floor. Takes note of the ones that creak. Memorizes the location of every window, counts the number of doors to various rooms, calculates their approximate sizes, uses that to estimate the layout of the house. He spots the guard to his left giving him a withering sidelong glare, and Lee understands he must have deduced what he's doing. </p>
  <p>Lee casts his eyes downward, a counterfeit of respectful obedience while using the cover of his dark eyelashes and unkempt hair to discreetly map the terrain. Easily navigable, though it's understood there will be no shortage of patrolling sentries. </p>
  <p>"These are to be your quarters," the servant says, and Lee wearily lifts his head and glances about the room they lead him into with his best display of indifference. </p>
  <p>It appears to be an apartment reserved for royal guests, and Lee's suspicions are flaring up again immediately. Green damask wallpaper accented by cherry wood panel wainscoting, thick drapes adorning the floor-length windows, elegant furnishings, and a hearth with a freshly lit fire make up the front parlor, and through the doors of the two adjoining rooms Lee glimpses a curtained four-poster bed with intricate carvings in its heavy wood frame, and a comfortable private study lined with bookshelves and featuring a neatly arranged desk stacked with leather-bound ledgers and inkpots that would make Hamilton weep with jealousy. </p>
  <p>"I've prepared the bath already," the servant continues, gesturing toward the bedchamber from where a hint of steam can be seen wafting through the doorway. There's an awkward hesitation as the servant looks to the guards, then to Lee's shackled wrists. </p>
  <p>His binds are grudgingly removed but the guards linger, reluctant to let Lee out of their sight. The servant stiffly watches them, eyes darting between the three men as though he wants to voice a concern but knows it isn't allowed. </p>
  <p>"There are guards posted at every exit, including beneath your windows," one of them warns. He leans closer to Lee, invades his space, and Lee drags his eyes up to meet the guy's face with the same deadened expression he wore when he killed that trembling kid on the prison ship. </p>
  <p>The guard stiffens, a poor attempt at suppressing his shuddering recoil. As a weak cover, he squeezes Lee above the elbow a little more aggressively than necessary. "Try anything, and you'll be subject to a lot worse than a bullet to the head."</p>
  <p>Lee's too worn down to laugh, but he manages a sneer, which must look especially unhinged with all the blood covering him. "Understood," he says. There's just enough ridicule in his tone that it causes the guard to narrow his eyes.</p>
  <p>They leave the room, and judging by the lack of retreating footsteps, likely stay posted just on the other side of the door. With no one left to support him, he wavers where he stands, stumbling a little before the servant catches him by the elbow. It's rather admirable that the servant doesn't show any disgust at the possibility of getting blood on him, or at how Lee imagines he must smell right now. </p>
  <p>He just calmly guides Lee to the adjoining room, which is sizeable enough to include an ornate copper tub partially concealed by a privacy screen in the corner. It's large enough to fit an average-sized man, and probably not unlike the one afforded to the king himself. Lee can only imagine how much work went into heating that much water, which looks as inviting as surely as it resembles a trap. Accompanying these lavish accommodations is also the usual washstand and basin, and a vanity laden with various toiletries - scented oils, pomades, tooth powder, shaving articles, cleansing pastes, and any number of pigments and powders to liven his pallor for fashionable gatherings. </p>
  <p>There's a twist of revulsion in his gut as his eyes sweep over the amenities, most of which are considered an unattainable luxury for even the wealthiest colonist. Where were these items acquired, he wonders, how much effort goes into procuring these things - most of which are imported from the most exotic reaches of the earth - only to be wasted on a loutish soldier who has little use for most of them. The excesses of the British knows no limit. How incredibly pampered they all must be, that these accommodations are considered an expected necessity rather than an unnecessary privilege.</p>
  <p>The servant is nervously awaiting Lee's attention, watching him with an expression of uncertainty as though he's deliberating on speaking to remind him why he's here. It's then that Lee feels his slight lip curl of distaste, that he becomes aware of the face he's making. To this servant, it must look like snobbish displeasure at the accommodations, as though they're not good enough. </p>
  <p>He relaxes his face into the most neutral expression he can manage as he allows himself to be undressed, not an ounce of modesty at being stripped naked by this stranger. He had so little modesty to begin with, but the prison ship got his head turned inside out, has him feeling less and less human with each passing day. The whole act of cleaning him up is a mere utility.</p>
  <p>Lowering himself into the warm water is such an immense pleasure that it sends a sinful little shudder slurring up his spine, and he sinks down into the heat, tilts his head back and closes his eyes as the servant sets about scrubbing him with the perfunctory mannerisms of a man who has done this hundreds of times for dozens of guests. </p>
  <p>Meanwhile, Lee drifts through disorganized bursts of awareness, subtly cognizant of the servant scrubbing him, lathering his hair, filing his nails, taking a straight razor to the overgrown patch of his scalp, tidying the fade of his hard part, then steadying Lee's chin and muttering a question to him about how he prefers his facial hair. </p>
  <p>This brings Lee back to full attention, yanked out of waking dreams by the instinct of a soldier being addressed directly. He blinks sluggishly up at the glint of the blade, the imploring face of the servant, struggles against the reflex to parse this as a threat. He doesn't know how to respond, doesn't usually have someone do this for him. He typically gets away with letting his shaving routine lapse a while anyway, as his facial hair uniquely tends to grow in only along his jawline and his chin, naturally tidy.</p>
  <p>He is starting to grow a little impatient with the little bits of grey beginning to sprout in among the black though, so he mutters a slurred request to just shave it clean. A hint of sideburn, perhaps. </p>
  <p>He's missed something important, realizes he must really be out of it when he starts losing time, finding himself propped up against the vanity and not remembering how he got there. He's required a second scrub-down, apparently, as the servant is sponging him down with fragrant water from the washbasin with all the industrious detachment of a maid polishing a decorative statue. Then, with a pronounced stab of horror, he becomes aware of the servant carefully trimming and tidying his pubic hair with that same removed candor he'd treated Lee's face.</p>
  <p>He would abruptly twist away if he was certain it wouldn't result in him toppling over, so instead he braces his hand against the toiletry table, recoiling as much as his limited energy allows him. </p>
  <p>"What are - is this really necessary?" Lee stammers awkwardly, and there's something in the way the servant glances up at him over his spectacles, something in the way his mouth flattens in what looks like a reluctant but sympathetic apology - almost a warning - that inspires the sinking feeling of dread in his gut. </p>
  <p>"What does Howe intend to do with me?" Lee whispers, hating the tremor in his voice. </p>
  <p>The servant drops his gaze back to his current task, refusing to make eye contact again. </p>
  <p>Lee falls into a numbed trance, now too aware of his racing heart and trembling, unreliable legs. Soon the servant is finishing up, finally pleased enough with the final product of his work, and is clearly eager to hurry out lest the awkwardness and guilt of the situation linger any longer than necessary. </p>
  <p>"Cornwallis wishes to inform you that you'll be receiving one Sidney Lee along with your hounds on the morrow," the servant says, still avoiding Lee's eyes as he busies himself with sweeping up the trimmings of Lee's hair. </p>
  <p>This grabs Lee's attention, a twinge of hope just daring to spark in his chest. There's also dread. The last thing he wants is to expose his sister - strong and willful though she is - to these savages. Being granted the privilege of contact with family, of being reunited with his dogs, feels even more like an omen. There's no reason the British would offer him these extravagant favors if there wasn't some ulterior price to be paid for them.</p>
  <p>Additionally - distantly, though Lee refuses to fully entertain the thought - he understands that these arrangements must have been planned some time in advance, before he was ever retrieved from that ship, if they'll be delivering Sidney to him as soon as tomorrow. He wonders where she's even been residing lately - surely not Cheshire, as she had to have been summoned well before Lee was ever even captured. But someone made arrangements for Sidney's transport while knowing precisely where Lee's been, and just let him rot there this whole time.</p>
  <p>"Perhaps some rest would be in order before the General summons you," the servant amends quickly.</p>
  <p>He bows hastily and scurries out without waiting for a response. </p>
  <p>Lee remains in a confounded daze well after the servant leaves. He turns, eyes falling on the mirror on the vanity, that twist of revulsion returning when he inspects its decorative flourishes, its size. He considers how much it must have cost. It's flawless, no imperfections or ripples, his reflection returned to him in perfect clarity. Mirrors are difficult enough to come by as it is, but especially of this fine quality and size. </p>
  <p>He stands there staring at his naked reflection for an indeterminate amount of time. Inspects his body, his face. His cheeks are a little gaunter than usual, he's lost a little of his muscle mass, but retained most of his tone. Hauling corpses around and digging graves in hard, frosty ground tended to keep one relatively fresh, apparently. </p>
  <p>He presses his fingers into the firm swell of his pectoral, traces his collarbone to the fibrous ripple of the muscles in his shoulders, tests the divots of his taut stomach, tilts his chin up and inspects the lines of his throat. He has an unusually elegant neck for a man so muscular; slender and smooth, the valleys of his throat alluringly framing the bob of his Adam's apple. To think, he'd come this close to having a noose around it.</p>
  <p>He certainly doesn't looklike a man who just survived a sentence in hell and barely cheated death for possibly the dozenth time - save for a haunted, vacant look to his eyes that he can't seem to make disappear even when he attempts a forced smile that ends up looking pitifully forlorn and disingenuous.</p>
  <p>At least the servant did an excellent job on his hair, Lee observes, having smoothed and tidied it so that it bounces healthy and clean over his brow. He inspects himself as though seeing his reflection for the first time; touches the square of his jaw, the robust angle of his chin, brushes his fingertips over the faint scarring on the side of his face from when he'd been grazed with the spray of artillery debris in some battle he barely remembers from the start of his career. </p>
  <p>With a pang of distant loss, he thinks of the Mohawk woman he'd entered into a union with years ago, of how much she'd adored his face. How she'd trace the comma-shaped lines framing his mouth with her thumbs, especially when they deepened with his smile, and kiss the pronounced dimple of his cheek, which always softened his expression in the most disarming, deceptive way. </p>
  <p>The heaviness of his brow, the thicket of his eyelashes, the hue of his eyes so dark that it was difficult to make out the pupils, the golden-olive skin that deepened to the tint of honey when exposed to the sun for any extended period of time - she had been mesmerized by these things, would openly gaze at him until he shyly glanced away. She'd twirl his dusky hair around her fingers, compare it to the jet of her own, then kiss the tip of his nose, would teasingly trace the subtle upturn of its slope. She had found the soft pink curve of his lips especially fascinating, was always so fond of kissing him. </p>
  <p>The first time they laid together, he'd eagerly put his head between her thighs and lapped at her with slow, teasing strokes, mapping the most sensitive part of her with the tip of his tongue. Her shrill gasp of pleased surprise had almost sounded like a sob, and she'd raked her fingers lovingly through his hair until she arched her back and went boneless with exhaustion and fulfillment. Then, when she'd rested up enough to get her wits about her again, he'd flipped her over, cupped her posterior in his palms, gently spread her apart, and gave her a thorough tongue-lashing back there, too.</p>
  <p>She'd been mortified at first, reluctant to explore this forbidden new pleasure, but that first swipe of his tongue had piqued her curiosity, and soon she was arcing back against him in silent encouragement, validating each stroke of his tongue with low moans. She'd been so docile afterwards, spent and drowsy, blinking slowly at him from where she lay with the most saccharine expression of admiration and gratitude. </p>
  <p>Recalling this gets his cock stiff, even now. It's with another pang of dread that Lee understands he'll likely never touch another woman again. Along with the dread, comes guilt. His union with her arguably hadn't been legally binding, and eventually she and her tribe had come to write him off as everyone is bound to do with him. He'd never harmed her - would never dream of it - but his erratic flares of temper had frightened her enough to the point that her family no longer thought he was healthy for her, or welcome within their community any longer.</p>
  <p>He understood. Put distance between him and them, that whole life. He'd known from the start that it couldn't have lasted forever, anyway. His heart would always belong to the battlefield.</p>
  <p>He often wonders about the twins he'd given her, what they must look like. They must have inherited the sleek obsidian hair of their parents. The black eyes as well. The glowing, coppery skin. He wonders if they inherited the heart-shaped face of their mother or his square jaw. He wonders if she ever tells them about him or just tells them she sculpted them from clay.</p>
  <p>He's weeping soon enough, and it doesn't help at all, isn't even remotely cathartic because all it does is make him feel shameful and weak. He finds himself on the bed, still naked and not remembering how or when he'd migrated there, sitting stiffly atop the covers and compulsively grazing his fingers over the embroidery of the silken pillows as though he doesn't trust them, all while casting a vacant stare at the drapes, seeing nothing. </p>
  <p>He doesn't trust any of this. Not the softness of the bed or its luxurious dressings, not the pristine pitchers of water and wine left for him on the nearby table or its accompanying layout of fine cheeses, fresh bread, and fragrant fruit, not the opulent toiletries which are considered a luxury even for royalty, not the ominous study that has Lee deducing what will be expected of him here in exchange for this immense charity. </p>
  <p>Coupled with...whatever the hell else it is Howe requires of him with these bizarre preparations. </p>
  <p>Eventually he sinks down onto the bed, struggling helplessly against his stubborn refusal to indulge in any of this. His mind wanders longingly to the food, but that, too, feels like a trap of some sort. Like if he accepts it, it's a symbol of his compliance with whatever Howe wants with him. His stomach pinches angrily, a pronounced shift as it lurches in protest. He can smell the sweet perfume of yeasty bread, the candied fragrance of ripe, fresh fruit. Such a sharp relief from the diseased stench of the ship, so pleasant and overwhelming it's almost painful. He's so hungry. </p>
  <p>Sleep is more imminent though, even though he still isn't entirely capable of achieving it on any gratifying level. He's too restless, spasming anxiously at every creak, his mind descending through multiple levels of hyperaware fugue. He has several waking dreams but they're erratic, absurd, manic - jumping spontaneously from scene to scene without any explanation of how he got there, and not a single one of them has any resolution or point. Frustrated and dragged back to wakefulness, it gives him the impatient notion of unfinished business, and he's still just as mercilessly unrested. </p>
  <p>Now he's wide awake, shivering and lying on his belly, feeling all the more naked and exposed even though the room is empty. It never occurred to him to draw the curtains around the bed, even though it would help with the cold. A part of him refuses to; like it would be securing another layer of his prison.</p>
  <p>He can still sense the guards outside, can hear their breathing and intermittent shuffling, can hear footsteps approaching and retreating along the corridor. Reluctantly, he slides beneath the covers, trembling as his cock brushes against the linens when he shifts back onto his stomach. The linens are of fine quality, and the soft press of the mattress against his cock just gets his arousal stirring once more. He shifts just a little, just enough to get a bit of friction, clenching his teeth as a shudder of pleasure ripples through him. </p>
  <p>He wishes he had a woman to accompany him here, even if not to bed her, but just to have a soft body to curl himself around, a shoulder to bury his mouth against, a warm little rump to teasingly rub back against his stirring cock. A morbid thought occurs to him - that he might request as much and have it granted as long as he does what they tell him to, as long as he becomes Howe's personal attack dog and swears his loyalty to the crown again.</p>
  <p>It's a risk he resolves never to take. Instead he thinks of the Seneca chief's daughter, recalls the fresh taste of her quim, how hot and wet she was inside, the glorious undulating pressure as she clenched around him. His cock thickens out at the memory, abrupt and reliably obedient on command. </p>
  <p>He flips over onto his back, tentative fingers teasing along the plane of his stomach. It's just idle touching like this for a few minutes, lightly dragging along the sensitive skin of his belly, causing goosebumps to rise in the wake of his own touch. He traces the dip at the inside of his hip bone, timidly sifts his fingers through his newly-tidied pubic hair, brushes them over his cock. </p>
  <p>How appropriate would it be for him to pleasure himself with the guards standing just a few feet away? He gives himself an experimental tug, biting down on his free hand to stifle the little sound that comes out of him, anticipation swirling in his belly. His heart thrums heavily, he squints his eyes shut, invokes the memory of various women he's taken over the years.</p>
  <p>There'd been a young Polish widow in Warsaw, so vibrant for a woman who'd lost her husband, so adventurous and not often likely to blush or cringe away from the unconventional. She'd admired the shine of his boots as she shamelessly flirted with him all night at some ball or other that required his attendance, and in his chambers later that night, had lifted her petticoats and bent herself over his knee at his command so he could redden her bare bottom with his palm. Her cunt had been so hot against his thigh, dampening the fabric of his breeches, and Lee had found it especially titillating that she got as aroused as she did from having her behind walloped so thoroughly.</p>
  <p>After he'd gotten her rear to a healthy enough blush, he'd teased his fingers down between her legs and fingered her right where she laid bent over his lap, softly rubbing that magical kernel of pleasure nestled in the cleft there as she cried out and desperately clutched his thigh. Then he'd laid her down on her belly, kissed her tender, smarting bottom all over, then turned her over, draped her knees over his shoulders, and licked her clean. </p>
  <p>Lee grunts a little louder than he'd have liked as he abruptly spills over his hand, hot semen spurting onto his belly. It's disappointing - a small, quick finish that he'd intended to savor and draw out, but extended tension and exhaustion ruined it. Fortunately, it seems to have had a sedative effect, his eyelids heavy already and his mind calmed enough that he thinks he might settle into true sleep now.</p>
  <p>With the last remains of his energy, he forces himself to grab a corner of the sheet and sluggishly cleans the seed from his middle, hissing through his teeth as he delicately wipes off his oversensitive, softened cock. The last thing he wants is to wake up sticky. Even less to be presented to the guards and General Howe smelling of semen. </p>
  <p>He closes his eyes, calmed by the slowed steadiness of his own breathing, and finally, mercifully, drops into dreamless sleep.</p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>A lengthy, persistent whine rouses Lee from darkness. </p><p>He tries to ignore it, to force himself back into the depths of drugged oblivion, because he still doesn't have the strength to face another day in pain. The whine sounds again, monotonous and nagging.</p><p>Lee reluctantly opens his eyes. </p><p>A furry, whiskered face stares back at him, and the whine sounds once more, an annoying wail emitting from a gaping, toothy maw betwixt chubby cheeks. Lee stares drowsily at the remarkably rotund calico cat sitting at attention next to his hip, unsure how to respond. </p><p>Petra and Ursula are poised at his bedside, trembling with curiosity at the cat, their long snouts quivering as they nose the air. The cat looks at them with haughty impatience, then rears her chubby arm up as though to swat at their noses, toes splayed out and claws extended. </p><p>Lee's hand darts out and he grabs a fluffy handful of flab. "Don't you dare," he warns. </p><p>The cat offers another whining rebuke as she recoils from Lee's grasp around her middle, then resumes her straight-backed pose next to his hip. </p><p>Then Jones strides over, swooping by Lee's bedside to shoo the cat away, who pounces through the air in a perfect arc as she jumps just out of reach of the dogs' imploring noses. Lee is impressed by her grace, considering her notable girth. </p><p>Jones opens the door leading out to the street, which heralds a rush of paralyzing cold air. The cat doesn't seem to mind, however; she bravely bounds toward the door in a flurry of hind legs so thick and fluffy that they give the comical illusion she's wearing pantaloons. Lee huffs with a poorly suppressed laugh, which causes a cruel flare of pain in his side. The cat flounces happily into a snow bank lining the street, and Jones mercifully shuts the door behind her, sealing out the blustery wind. </p><p>"She's very fat," Lee observes. It's a banal assessment, but he's just woken up, and the cat was a bit of a surprise.</p><p>"That tends to be a side effect of being an efficient mouser. She's rid the entire street of rodents, I'd wager. She keeps my infirmary reliably devoid of pests, as it is."</p><p>Lee watches Jones as he picks his way around curious dogs, cleans his hands, then drags a chair up to Lee's bedside, beginning the routine of folding the blanket back and undressing his wound to inspect and clean it. </p><p>Strangely, but perhaps predictably, this has become a curious mix of unpleasantness and excitement for Lee. It still smarts considerably, but just being touched is so divine, especially as gently as Jones has been touching him. </p><p>"What does 'Tewa'kerahkhwa' mean?" Jones says after a considerable silence.</p><p>This startles Lee, his mood escalating from disoriented lethargy to defensive agitation in the space of a heartbeat. "How did you come to know that name?" he snaps suspiciously.</p><p>Jones's eyes dart up to Lee's face, his brow pinching in fleeting, bewildered horror as he discovers he's just ventured into forbidden territory. He glances back down, the corners of his mouth tightening. "It's a name? You were muttering it in your sleep."</p><p>This subdues Lee a little, partially because he realizes how much his delirious, half-conscious mutterings may have exposed him, but also because it's a dramatic shift in dynamic that Jones is actually attempting to make conversation. It feels suspect, considering he's only ever regarded Lee with hostility, impatience, or disdain before now. It's uncertain whether Jones has begun to soften toward him - perhaps a byproduct of Lee's previous humiliating display of needy weakness  - or if there's some other motive there, a means of coaxing information out of him. </p><p>Also, maybe Lee feels...<em>something</em> about the notion that Jones has been hovering about, watching over him while he slept. A guardian and protector in his defenseless state. Something warm and effervescent unfurls in his chest at this, and he has to suppress the urge to press his hand over his shuddering heart. </p><p>"My wife," Lee answers on an airy sigh, squinting his eyes shut against the sharp sting in his side. </p><p>Jones's hands go still for just a moment before resuming. "<em>Wife</em>?" he repeats, doing a poor job of hiding his shock. "You're married?"</p><p>"Was," he says. "Or at least...some approximation of it. It wasn't - wasn't official under our laws. She was a Mohawk woman."</p><p>Lee can tell by the subtle change in Jones's touch that this information has floored him. There's a lengthy silence, and he imagines Jones is trying to find some appropriate response to this. </p><p>"What was in it for you?" Jones finally asks.</p><p>Lee's eyes snap open, and he doesn't attempt to hide the hurt and anger there. </p><p>Jones's eyes briefly meet his, then quickly shift away. He clearly regrets asking that, an illustration of subdued regret in the way he demurely looks down. "You...really loved her?"</p><p>Lee shrugs, defeat and exhaustion pacifying his flare of contempt as quickly as it had appeared. "I don't know anymore. I thought I did, back then. Maybe the closest thing to it a man like me is capable of feeling. Doesn't matter. She banished me eventually anyway, as everyone always does."</p><p>Jones scoffs and shakes his head. "So disingenuous," he mutters.</p><p>Lee fixes Jones with a scathing glare. "<em>What's</em> disingenuous?" </p><p>Jones's mouth flattens, his chest deflating with a rueful sigh. "At the risk of cruelly wounding you even more over something that's probably inappropriate to address in polite conversation - expressing concern over being continuously abandoned when you know damn well why it happens is so incredibly insincere. Especially when you don't put in the slightest effort to remedy your behavior and make yourself worth being around. Self-pity gets you nowhere. It's lazy."</p><p>Maybe before Monmouth, Lee would have clocked a man in the jaw for saying something like that to him. Maybe he still would, but his head is in a weird place right now, compromised by pain, by his increased state of vulnerability from his past relentlessly haunting his dreams, and especially by this peculiar soft spot he seems to have developed for the doctor.</p><p>Instead of feeling anger or indignation, he just feels wounded. He doesn't like admitting Jones is right, doesn't like that Jones has just leveled this observation at him so bluntly. </p><p>"Should probably get some food in you today," Jones says after a brief pause, his tone hushed in what Lee supposes is apology. "Do you think you might be able to attempt eating?"</p><p>Lee nods, feeling like a morose, fussy child. </p><p>"What about you?" Lee asks, desperate to say anything to fill the uncomfortable quiet, to distract himself from how exposed and frivolous he feels.</p><p>"What <em>about </em>me?" Jones repeats distantly. </p><p>"Have you a wife of your own? I find it unlikely you'd not be married."</p><p>It's barely perceptible, but Lee catches the way Jones's nostrils flare just slightly, the brief flicker of an artery in his neck. "And why is that?" he asks, voice hollow.</p><p>Lee understands now he's the one that's said something wrong, offended the doctor somehow. He isn't sure how to proceed without making it worse, considers just dropping this line of questioning anyway because it's obviously extremely personal. Which is precisely what teases Lee's curiosity and impulsiveness.</p><p>"You're a physician, that already puts you pretty high on the list of desired suitors, does it not? Admired within your field, no less. You're healthy, fit. You're - well, you're - " Lee struggles, realizing a little too late the direction he's headed with this. "It's just - I'm sure the women find you easy to look at, is all. I guess it's...strange that you'd still be a bachelor."</p><p>Jones's eyes slide toward Lee, regarding him out of his periphery. It's the final word in suspicious glances, and Lee's heart rate spikes. </p><p>"Hm. Isn't it though?" is all Jones supplies.</p><p>It's an intentionally cryptic non-answer, a subtle rebuke clearly meant to discourage Lee from this particular line of questioning. Desperate to get back into familiar conversational territory but not quite ready to cease pushing his luck, Lee shifts to the next topic that's almost certainly off-limits:</p><p>"So who did you kill, then?"</p><p>Jones huffs impatiently, still making a point of not answering as he nudges Lee's hip in silent command to turn onto his side. Lee complies with a wince and a swallowed grunt, guided along by the heel of Jones's hand, and that pronounced notion of vulnerability swells within him again. Lying with his back to Jones like this as he delicately dabs at the exit wound in Lee's back has his breath hitching and his heart racing. </p><p>"What ever gave you the idea I've killed someone?" </p><p>"I heard Laurens ask you about it. When I was...well. When I was in a half-state of living, if you will."</p><p>"Then it's safe to assume any confession you may have thought you heard from me was a hallucination."</p><p>Lee starts to turn back, to make eye contact with Jones, but he's braced in place by that startlingly strong grip again. Defeated, too weak to fight him, Lee relents. "It was actually your profound silence at the question that spoke volumes as to the answer."</p><p>"No doubt a manifestation of my guilt at those poor souls my medical expertise wasn't sufficient enough to save in their final hours. You're reading too much into it, General."</p><p>Lee is guided onto his back again and he stares at Jones's impassive face, hoping for some flicker of a tell there, but there is none. </p><p>"I don't think I am," Lee says. </p><p>A shrewd, mocking smile breaks Jones's face, and he shakes his head impatiently. "What do you want to hear? I'm not you, Lee. You want me to be some haunted, tortured soul because you want so desperately for me to be like you, but I'm not. I'm sorry. I'm not sure what more you want from me."</p><p>So accustomed to this type of mental warfare, unable to abandon his inveterate custom of disarming a person to gain the upper hand, Lee acquiesces to Jones's reticence with the abruptness of a spiteful tug-of-war opponent suddenly letting go of the rope, only to leave his adversary tumbling backward with the force of his own resistance. "Fair enough," Lee says dismissively, and closes his eyes as though to denote the finality of it.</p><p>Even though he can't see him, Lee can feel the distrust emanating from Jones, can sense his tacit understanding of what game is being played here. Jones rather characteristically proceeds as smoothly as if they'd been discussing something as benign as the color of paint on the walls. </p><p>"Try to refrain from scratching," Jones says as he redresses Lee's wound. "You've been fidgeting with it in your sleep, and I'm getting too exhausted to stay up and monitor you. I'd rather not have to strap you to the bed."</p><p>Lee's eyes flutter open and he raises his eyebrows, struggling to suppress his smile. He knows the good-humored lines framing his mouth have already betrayed him and deepened considerably, can feel that dimple twitching in his cheek. That warmth is spreading through his chest again, static tingling along the insides of his thighs. <em>Well done</em>, he thinks, thinking his own tactic has just been used against him in the cleverest way. </p><p>"Perhaps you should have, then," Lee says, and immediately regrets it the moment it's out of his mouth. </p><p>Jones's jaw flexes, and his eyes shift toward Lee as he inclines his head toward him just slightly, casting a distrustful, sidelong stare that looks like an accusation. </p><p>"What are you doing?" Jones says quietly. </p><p>Clearly Lee has misjudged the tone of the exchange. There hadn't been anything suggestive intended in the doctor's warning, and now Lee has misinterpreted everything and engineered another disaster from which he can't escape.</p><p>"What trickery is this, hm?" Jones presses. "You think I don't see you, the way you've been staring at me? I can't tell if it's all an act, to get me to confess my nature to you so you might use it against me, or if you're sincere and just taking advantage of the most convenient person in your orbit so that you might satisfy your most forbidden impulses now you've nothing left to lose. That's the worst part about you, Lee, that you're such a manipulative rat, no one can ever divine your true motives. And you have the nerve to express flimsy concern over people abandoning you."</p><p>Lee feels seasick, his head spinning with pronounced dizziness at the abrupt change in tone. He struggles to respond, hasn't the slightest clue on an appropriate reaction to whatever just happened. "<em>What</em>?" is all he can come up with, a breathy whisper that has him feeling especially stupid and impotent.</p><p>"Doubtless you've sorted it out by now, but if you must hear it aloud, I'm unmarried because I keep company with other men," Jones hisses. </p><p>He smirks at Lee's startled expression, a wry sneer that expresses the deepest contempt.</p><p>"That's right," Jones says. "A sodomite. A libertine. A heretic." </p><p>Lee has never been one for modesty or minced words. He's never been one to easily offend, especially not at spoken vulgarities. But the acerbic nature with which Jones spits these words now, with the consonants especially short and pronounced, his teeth bared, as though recreating the way those words have been spat at him throughout his life, causes Lee to understand the level of disdain and hatred that Jones has most certainly experienced. Lee cringes visibly, winces as he turns his head sideways against his pillows, as though they might offer some semblance of protection.</p><p>"So what say you, hm?" Jones challenges. "All those personal questions about a wife - you knew already, don't play me for stupid. Now you've got the confession you were seeking, will you be betraying my confidence to the hospital for lunatics, then?"</p><p>"No," Lee answers quickly, though it's really more of a breathless wheeze, his lungs empty. Like he's been punched in the gut with a rifle again. He hastily moistens his lower lip with the tip of his tongue, takes a couple of unsatisfying, frantic breaths, and tries again. "<em>No</em>," he says, a little more assertively this time. "Who would - "</p><p><em>Take me seriously</em>, was the end to that sentence, but this response doesn't feel appropriate. As if the only thing keeping him from betraying Jones in this way is Lee's damaged reputation. But that's not it. </p><p><em>You've done so much for me when you had every reason to let me die and now I owe you a debt</em> doesn't seem right, either. </p><p>Searching Jones's impatient, reproachful face only exacerbates Lee's flustered bewilderment, and he finds he doesn't really have the words to explain himself. Even in the midst of General Howe's...<em>unwanted attention</em> toward Lee during his captivity, his disdain toward the man was more inclined to his general character and lack of respect for boundaries than whatever personal sexual inclinations the man had. Lee realizes that he's never had a definitive thought on the subject itself, despite widely accepted convention, but he doesn't have the proper words to reassure Jones of this.</p><p><em>You're a good man who never did anything to deserve that level of cruelty and it would be a reprehensible thing for me to sell you out for being a victim of nature</em>, <em>besides </em>is the approximate response that halfway forms itself in Lee's head, but at this point, the silence has gone on long enough, and Lee's relationship with this man is already so tarnished as it is that voicing it would seem disingenuous at best, and insulting at worst.</p><p>"You don't trust me," is what Lee says instead. "I wouldn't trust me, either."</p><p>It seems like this is the end of the exchange. Jones has that shuttered look to his face that signifies he's sealed himself off emotionally for the foreseeable future, and is poised to spring for the door and leave Lee in isolation once more. </p><p>But Lee's head is so clouded by confusion, fragility, guilt, and the general necessity for human contact, that he's speaking again, sputtering out damning personal secrets because it's his only remaining defense to the last person who might ever speak to him again.</p><p>"My mother despised me," he finds himself saying before he even realizes he's said it. "She despised all of us. We were always looked upon with disdain, like we were burdens. She never touched us, or smiled at us, or held us. We'd lost so many siblings at that point, too, either to miscarriage or disease, I think she may have blamed Sidney - my sister - and me for all the misfortune she experienced as a mother. That we survived was a testament to our...I don't know, our...usurping of life we might not have deserved."</p><p>Lee feels drunk. He's not had a drink in an age, but the emotional high of saying this much puts his mind into a surreal fog. Jones is frozen in place, though, staring down at Lee with a mix of horror and curiosity. </p><p>"Sidney and I only ever had each other," Lee continues, empowered in his recklessness, in the way that he's caught Jones off guard for once. "But I - I think the - the neglect as a child is what had me throwing myself into combat when I was still just a boy. Had me chasing every fight. In a sense it was the only form of - of physical contact I felt was available to me. The only form of physical contact I deserved. It's...unhealthy, I realize that now. I don't blame my mother. I haven't spoken to her in years, she refuses to write me. For the longest time I did, though. Blame her, that is. Thought that if she hated her children so much, she should not have had any. Now that I'm older, I realize she didn't have much choice. That...her station in life didn't really grant her any other options. She had every right to consider us burdens. But as a result, I seem to suffer from a...distemper of the mind. As you can see. I don't know how to fix it."</p><p>There's a long, painful silence. Jones is openly gaping at Lee, a deep crease in the center of his brow, his pallor blanched. Immediately, Lee regrets saying so much. He isn't sure what inspired him to say it, or why that, specifically, was the first thing that occurred to him to say. He's never catalogued the humors of his mind like that before, not even internally. To speak it aloud unprovoked and unrehearsed has shocked even Lee, himself. </p><p>"I'm sure you...possibly knew that already, though," Lee says feebly. "There's no telling what all I've - what all I've confessed to you in my sleep."</p><p>Jones relaxes suddenly, all the shocked tension deflating from his muscles in an instant. He's the impassive doctor again, arm reaching out to place a palm against Lee's forehead as casually as if nothing had ever transpired between them. </p><p>"Fever seems to have broken," Jones says. </p><p>It's shameful, impossibly reckless, perhaps a little bold, but Lee tilts into it, makes a show of how much he appreciates that touch. </p><p>Jones slowly withdraws his hand. Sits back and studies Lee with a look of renewed curiosity. </p><p>"So why don't you tell me what happened to you on that prison ship," he says softly.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Inferno excerpt translation (via Allen Mandelbaum): </p><p>O reader, do not ask of me how I<br/>grew faint and frozen then -- I cannot write it:<br/>all words would fall far short of what it was.</p><p>I did not die, and I was not alive;<br/>think for yourself, if you have any wit,<br/>what I became, deprived of life and death.</p><p>***</p><p>Here I demonstrate the complicated task of reconciling the modern aesthetic of the musical's iteration of these characters with the historical time period; just treat it like it's so normal that it doesn't warrant explanation 😅</p><p>Also note that the historical accuracy of this is pretty loose; some things are authentic and some are exaggerated for dramatic effect; it is unlikely that the real Lee would have ever seen the inside of a prison ship, due to his high rank and the value he still bore to the British. It is true, however, that he was kept in pretty luxurious accommodations for the duration of his captivity.</p><p>and I absolutely did mary sue my own cat into this chapter because I felt it needed COMIC RELIEF</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Condemnation</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>content warnings: gaslighting, manipulation, victim blaming, mild dubiously consensual erotic asphyxiation, sexual violence, period-typical/war violence, strangulation, just shitty men being shitty men to each other</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b> <em>[somewhere in Tory country; December 27, 1776]</em></b>
</p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>An instinct conditioned into every career soldier is the ability to abruptly rouse oneself from the deepest sleep at the slightest indication of alarm - a result of being persistently attuned to the sounds and smells of any environment, and the reflexive alertness at anything that doesn't belong. </p>
  <p>Lee jerks awake at the first sound of the door creaking on its hinges, subconsciously reaching for a trench knife that isn't there. All of his weapons had been confiscated on the night of his capture, and he feels especially naked and exposed now - still would even if he were clothed. His hand curls around the blankets covering him, clutching them with the urgent anticipation of flinging them back and springing for safety. </p>
  <p>Heavy footsteps approach, and Lee waits, eyes darting to the vanity, falling upon all the various bottles that might be broken and turned into a weapon, to the conveniently massive mirror. </p>
  <p>One of the guards appears in the doorway, followed by the servant who has some rather ostentatious-looking formal garments draped over his arm. The guard inspects Lee from the doorway, hand poised stiffly on the hilt of his saber, his countenance a scowling image of furious disdain. He looks prepared to murder Lee unprovoked, but shows the restraint of a soldier ordered to stand down no matter what. </p>
  <p>"Make haste," he commands, "the General doesn't like to be kept waiting."</p>
  <p>He barely moves aside enough to allow the servant room to enter, who squeezes past him with the deferential, timid swiftness of a subordinate attuned to the ill whims of temperamental guards. Something twists in the center of Lee's chest at this, some little flourish of empathetic distaste for the way the British must treat their help. Lee's eyes linger on the guard, then shift to the servant in a silent, open display of judgment. </p>
  <p>Then he calmly draws the covers away from himself and stands, just as regal and immodest in his nudity as he was on the morning of his capture. The guard glares at him, cheek twitching as his eyes sweep over Lee's body, and Lee just straightens his back and offers the subtlest flex of his muscles. The guard makes some impatient sound of disapproval at the arrogant mockery, and the servant awkwardly waits with the garments prepared for Lee to step into. </p>
  <p>Then the urgency of the call of nature makes itself known, and Lee mutters a request for the chamber pot. He isn't remotely surprised or even bothered that the guard lingers and watches him relieve himself, which is clearly an extension of the campaign to dehumanize him and treat him like an object, but he does have a small pang of anxiety that his piss is tinged with blood. That blow to his middle from earlier still smarts, and he imagines he'll be pissing blood for a couple of days. It's nothing he hasn't dealt with before, though. He's had worse. Either it'll go away on its own or it'll kill him. Both are acceptable options.</p>
  <p>Lee turns his attention to the awaiting garments, which consist of a satin waistcoat and fine velvet coat with deep cuffs, all in a rich crimson lined with gold trimmings. It's unnecessarily extravagant for a meeting and private dinner with General Howe. Lee looks upon them with the cold disdain of obligation, though he silently steps into the silk stockings without a fuss and holds his arms out to accommodate the servant in dressing him. </p>
  <p>What reinforces his resistance is the finishing touch of the ensemble - a signet ring bearing the royal coat of arms, which the manservant slides onto Lee's left pinkie. It's heavy, cold, cumbersome - though the way Lee cringes as it's settled into place, the symbol might as well have been branded into his skin. It feels like the utmost treason - a sin, even - that he wears this avatar of loyalty to the crown. He considers yanking it off and flinging it into the face of the waiting guard, but ultimately he complies. The more agreeable he is here, the quicker this meeting will be over. </p>
  <p>He's escorted down to the dining hall, which is elaborately illuminated in a blaze of candlelight sconces, oil lamps, and a fragrant fire as the last light of winter's early sunset dwindles through the windows. The rich perfume of the wood burning in the hearth combined with the pleasant aroma of savory foods assaults Lee's senses with such intensity that he reacts as though he'd quite physically been struck. The guard escorting him grows impatient with Lee's halting footsteps, clutches him around the arm hard enough to bruise, and shoves him rather forcefully toward the heavily-laden table, where Howe - and, to Lee's shocked disgust, Tarleton as well - are already seated. </p>
  <p>Howe looks up at him and greets him with a beaming smile as though they're old friends reuniting for tea. Tarleton, predictably, wears a coy sneer that suggests he thinks he's god's greatest gift to the earth. </p>
  <p>Lee hesitates, feeling overdressed and foolish, desperately wanting to keep up his resistance to this entire arrangement, but finds his resolve waning when greeted with such an abundance of fresh food. The guard pokes him in the back, causing Lee to stumble forward, and Howe waves his napkin impatiently in their direction.</p>
  <p>"That's quite enough, Young," Howe chides. "No sense of hospitality for our guest. You're dismissed."</p>
  <p>Lee feels a small flare of amusement at the way Howe addresses the guard - somehow he knows the man's name is Burke, not Young. Likely he absorbed this bit of useless information as he floated in a restless state of half-sleep while his personal sentries chatted just outside his door. He turns at the waist, expectantly scrutinizing the guard over his shoulder while the man hesitates as though deliberating on correcting the error. He wisely decides against it and sees himself out.</p>
  <p>"Sit, General. We have things to discuss. And you must sample the duck, it's magnificent tonight."</p>
  <p>Gut churning with simultaneous revulsion and longing, Lee reluctantly pulls a chair out and seats himself across from them. His eyes sweep over the multitude of various foods, despising these men merely for the fact that they've been dining in luxury while he was left to starve in filth. He eyes the duck, roasted with prunes and currants and smelling particularly tempting, but knows better than to indulge it. He's spent many an extended expedition in the wilderness and traveled the long, harrowing transatlantic voyage on musty ships where food was scarce, that he's well acquainted with the havoc a greedy, impatient appetite can do on a man's bowels after any period of limited nutrition.</p>
  <p>He helps himself to some bread and a spot of raisins and candied almonds garnishing the rack of lamb, much to the open disdain of Howe. He's deliberate, chews slowly, takes small bites, interspersed with modest sips of wine. It will still probably have his insides rioting later tonight, but he's likely on the brink of death otherwise. </p>
  <p>"That color suits you," Howe says, gesturing toward the garments provided for Lee. "Your complexion always looked so much more vibrant in warmer hues."</p>
  <p>Lee narrows his eyes. The crimson of his coat is a little too dark to match the colors of the British army, but he understands the implication, loathes it. "Get to the fucking point, Howe," he says frostily. "Why am I here?"</p>
  <p>Howe recoils a little, a flicker of anger crossing his features before they settle into that counterfeit façade of politeness again. He chews his food sloppily, swallows noisily, tosses his greasy napkin down and sits back in his chair so he can study Lee from across the table in what he must assume is intimidating, but all it does is try Lee's patience while giving him a small dose of secondhand embarrassment. </p>
  <p>That this man only ever made it to the rank of general as a result of nepotism - through an illegitimate descendant of the crown, no less - is a testament to the British custom of having absolutely no respect for meritocracy. It doesn't help that Lee's still drowsy, ravenously hungry and knows full well he can't do much to alleviate it as quickly as he'd like, and these things combined has his patience waning at this gaudy imitation of nobility so frequently espoused by the British while cloaking alarming depths of savagery. Roleplaying a level of sophistication these people never earned or genuinely appreciated is phenomenally tacky. It has Lee remembering why he severed his relationship with them. </p>
  <p>"Why do <em>you </em>think you're here?" Howe counters.</p>
  <p>Lee observes Howe over the rim of his glass as he takes a languid sip of wine, then sets it down with just enough force to upset its contents and spill a neat little drop on the pristine white tablecloth. "Judging by that generous study I've been provided, you intend to appoint me as an aide-de-camp and advise you on how to more effectively slaughter and subjugate my friends and colleagues, I'd assume."</p>
  <p>Howe's shoulders jump with a riot of laughter, barking and obnoxious. It grates Lee's nerves; he's too fatigued to deal with abrupt, loud noises right now. </p>
  <p>"You always did have a flair for the dramatic, didn't you?" Howe says. "Surely you don't really consider them <em>friends</em>?"</p>
  <p>Lee offers a small snort of impatience and rolls his eyes. He already knows he's in for a long evening of not bothering to justify any of Howe's absurdities with a response. </p>
  <p>"Really, Lee, your loyalties to those traitors has gone on long enough. Don't presume to sympathize with them. I know you too well. You're entertaining a rebellious episode, but it's time for you to come home now. The rebels are losing - this rioting will not end well for the colonies, and you'd be wise to acquaint yourself with the right side before we succeed in quashing their little uprising. There are great things - promotions, and the like - in store for your future here. I can't say Washington has the good sense to offer you the same. The rebels will never appreciate your genius in the way we have, surely you recognize that."</p>
  <p>Lee fumes, fighting to suppress any outward indication of his simmering rage. His hands are trembling, and he clenches them into fists atop his thighs beneath the table. Howe's approach here is classic; the directed condescension, reducing Lee to an unruly child spitefully disobeying his parents, rather than a career soldier politically and morally motivated - nay, <em>compelled </em>- to fight in the name of freedom, followed by a notable word choice that diminishes the Continental Army's efforts and sacrifices in the theater of war. Not "soldiers" or "combatants", but rebels. Not a war or a resistance, but riots. It's designed to be insulting and dismissive. </p>
  <p>This is calculated; Lee knows that officially recognizing this rebellion as a war and its belligerents as soldiers would mean officially recognizing the United States of America as an independent state. Which is the very thing this war intends to resolve.</p>
  <p>All topped off with a nice finishing touch of the classic "they don't love you as much as I do" manipulative isolation. Lee muses that he's more irritated at the clumsiness of the tired old tactic than he is that Howe had the recklessness to attempt it on him. For a man who claims to know Lee so well, it would seem nothing could be farther from the truth. </p>
  <p>When Lee finally speaks, his voice is calm, metered, soft. "You are awfully presumptuous, and an abysmal judge of character, Howe. You're conflating your confidence with arrogance. And that arrogance is precisely why you stand a chance of losing. Never underestimate the abilities of an oppressed populace. All they've got left is their rage. You've taken everything else from them. And rage is a powerful thing when weaponized," Lee says, tapping his temple with two fingers. It's a small, condescending gesture, responding in kind to Howe's loftiness.</p>
  <p>Howe slams his hand flat against the table, causing the serving platters and cutlery to clatter and chime anxiously. He's quickly abandoned the disingenuous cordiality, his impatience commanding him like a fussy child. "You ungrateful snake," he seethes, stabbing an accusatory finger at Lee. "I'll have you know I <em>personally </em>championed your acquittal. I disobeyed direct orders to ship you to England to stand trial for desertion. That's the popular accusation levied against you among certain circles in the top brass. <em>I</em> wasn't so forgetful of your officially sanctioned resignation, though. I did you a favor."</p>
  <p>Lee narrows his eyes, snatches up his glass and takes a heavy drink he's sure he'll regret later. "How incredibly generous of you, that you did me the noble service of heeding the law and doing the bare minimum of your fucking job. Loathe to think of what monumentally groveling behavior you might expect of me were to you <em>actually </em>do me a favor."</p>
  <p>Howe's face turns such an impossible shade of deep pink that Lee suspects he may just keel over from apoplexy. Tarleton nervously glances to Howe, then to Lee, and he glares with such burning hatred it almost looks comical, exaggerates his boyish features and ironically makes him look much younger and nonthreatening.</p>
  <p>"No one speaks to the General like that," Tarleton snaps, having been uncharacteristically quiet this whole time.</p>
  <p>Lee smiles, tilts his head to the side. "Oh? I bet they don't."</p>
  <p>He's really pushing his luck here, but the warmth of the wine burning through him, coupled with his vengeful rage at what's been done to him, <em>at what the British have done to their subjects in general</em>, has him abandoning all caution. He's angry, nothing left to lose, reckless and wishing for an excuse to satisfy his worst impulses. If they intend to torture him further or kill him, he absolutely <em>will </em>take them all out with him. And he won't do it quickly or mercifully, either. He's more creative than the tepid British hierarchy, better at torture and mental warfare. This is why he's been summoned here; the plan is obvious, they intend to use him as their personal weapon.</p>
  <p>This bolsters his confidence, has his heart quickening in excitement. This is when Lee is at his most dangerous; when he's backed into a corner. </p>
  <p>Howe recovers, grabs his napkin and dabs at his glistening face. "Now, Lee," he scolds, panting with frustration, "there's no need to spoil a fortuitous evening. As you may have realized, you're not exactly afforded the luxury of many options here. You're in no place to bargain. This can be a lucrative opportunity for us both. You're valuable to us because you have an insider's knowledge of the Continental Army's strategies and weaknesses. You can end this swiftly and mercifully for your...<em>friends...</em>and be reinstated to your previous post here - with a swift promotion, of course."</p>
  <p>"And if I decline?"</p>
  <p>Howe draws a pensive breath, leveling a sobering glare at Lee. "Then I'll take you out behind the gunpowder magazine and shoot you in the head for treason myself."</p>
  <p>Now it's Lee's turn to laugh, and it's so explosive that it causes Tarleton to jump in his seat. Lee holds his napkin to his mouth, muffling the sound in a disingenuous gesture of reserved politeness. "What an enticing concept!" Lee says mirthfully. "And an honor, no less, that you'd go through all that trouble just for me. Perhaps I'll spare you the effort and just hang myself with my bedsheets tonight after this little rendezvous is over, hm?" </p>
  <p>The suggestion has the effect Lee was searching for - calling Howe's bluff, illustrated in the way his face falls slack and blanches, eyes widening nervously. A dead defector with such a high rank as Lee isn't valuable to anyone, and Howe would specifically be held accountable, possibly even executed himself for the failure to retain a highly coveted asset with a wealth of useful intel. Howe's threat is as empty as his promises; it's clear that it's in everyone's best interest to keep Lee alive for the foreseeable future.</p>
  <p>Lee slowly lowers his arm, bringing the napkin away from his face so Howe can see his knowing sneer. <em>Now look who's backed into a corner, you traitorous weasel</em>. </p>
  <p>The way Howe's jaw tightens and the look of hurt and betrayal that settles on his face is enough to inspire a subtle twist of guilt in Lee's gut. </p>
  <p>They used to be friends. Despite their political differences, Lee has found that whenever he's taken prejudices for or against a man, he's had difficulty shaking them off. He'd liked the guy once, found him rather good natured at times; though making himself an apologist for the man or his actions and allegiances is a line Lee dares not cross. Too much is at stake now, too many lives and freedoms in great peril. </p>
  <p>Howe drops his gaze to his food, as though too affronted to look Lee in the eye any longer. "It's such a tremendous shame," Howe says softly. "I'd hoped for this evening to be a spot more civilized."</p>
  <p>That fleeting pang of guilt is suddenly replaced by annoyance. "Then I'd wager you ought not have abducted and threatened to kill an old friend, William."</p>
  <p>Howe quickly glances up in a tentative look of distrust, as though he expects Lee isn't entirely genuine in his nostalgia. Lee steadily keeps his eyes on him, expression unreadable as he reaches for his wine glass again and slowly drains its contents in one swallow. Howe's eyes linger on Lee's hand as he sets the glass back down, openly admiring the ring on his pinkie.</p>
  <p>"You always did have the most elegant hands," Howe says wistfully. His tongue drags across his lower lip, eyes going a little glazed as his stare remains locked on Lee's fingers wrapped around the glass. "So fine-boned and delicate - gorgeous, really. Hard to reconcile with the fact that they've killed so many people."</p>
  <p>This is a curious shift in conversation, and Lee puzzles at where Howe is going with this. Then everything slowly falls into place when he sees the movement of Howe's arm, how his hand clearly comes to rest on Tarleton's thigh under the table, how it most certainly slides higher into forbidden territory in the way Tarleton's breath hitches and his shoulders stiffen. His eyelids flutter, chest expanding with slow, deepened breaths, and combined with the way Howe's gaze still lingers hungrily on Lee's hand, the way his eyes drag up to Lee's face, then fix on his mouth, Lee wonders how the hell he didn't see it sooner.</p>
  <p><em>Ah, there it is</em>. </p>
  <p>It wasn't Lee's head Howe has been after this whole time. It was his body he wanted.</p>
  <p>This entire situation is a formula for disaster. Earlier, with that strange fuss about Lee's pubic hair, he'd distantly considered Howe intended to pimp him out to the wives of Continental officers in a cover to gather secrets, perhaps. Now Lee feels a stab of horror at the understanding it was for Howe's own enjoyment. </p>
  <p>It makes sense, now that Lee thinks about it. The man is married, even had a scandalous arrangement with a mistress that in retrospect, was a little too flamboyantly, conveniently public. Yet he's sired no children. It's a brilliant cover, Lee supposes, though this now puts him in a much more unsavory situation. Threatening to decline the secretary position was risky enough - what happens if Lee declines this man's sexual advances? </p>
  <p>Though, admittedly, this is a weakness that might put the odds in Lee's favor. He can take advantage of this. A man's mind is never more compromised than when it's preoccupied with sex. If Lee can dance around this little venture without ever having to deliver, there may be hope for him yet. And he's had plenty of experience being a monumental flirt - it should take almost no effort at all to translate that into being a royal cocktease.</p>
  <p>Lee tests his skill now, languidly drags his pinkie up and down the stem of the glass as Howe looks on. He's a little grateful for the flourish of the signet ring now, knows it only adds to the elegance of the way he holds his glass. Howe's breathing notably deepens, and Lee pushes the glass toward him. </p>
  <p>"If you don't mind, General," Lee says, voice low as he glances to the decanter. </p>
  <p>Howe responds with the abruptness of an obedient servant, filling the glass to almost overflowing. Lee's already feeling queasy, the room is tilting, and he's keeping a close eye on Tarleton in his periphery, trying to figure how he fits into all this. If he's another plaything of Howe's, it's uncertain how Tarleton might feel about Howe's fondness of Lee. He may be young, but he's sharp; he very well could see right through Lee's ploy to humor that fondness. </p>
  <p>Adding to the fact that the man <em>did </em>try to have Lee killed. He might just yet be successful; there's no telling if Lee is still in danger of infection. He might have brought any number of illnesses with him from that cursed place, could still possibly be dead within a week at the hands of typhoid, yellow fever, dysentery. But Tarleton's presence certainly complicates things even more.</p>
  <p>Lee's next drink of wine nearly floods back up his throat; he can taste the alcohol fumes on every exhale, has to concentrate with great difficulty to set his glass back down without upsetting it. He swallows forcefully a couple of times, makes it discreet; if Howe sees him on the brink of inebriation, he's certain to exploit it. Luckily for Lee, Howe is in a similar state, and not quite as good at hiding it. He needs to wrap this up, quickly. </p>
  <p>"What is it you require of me, sir?" Lee says. <em>Softly </em>- almost a purr, could be interpreted as seductive, but it's really just a cover to hide how his speech is slurred. </p>
  <p>If Howe is suspicious of Lee's sudden acquiescence, he doesn't show it. Tarleton is too distracted to take much heed, either. They're both positively swimming in drink and the anticipatory high of an impending fuck, and Lee's doing his best to hold himself together before he has to find an unassuming plant or fireplace to vomit into. </p>
  <p>Howe sits back in his chair, shifts as though he's spreading his legs beneath the table, allowing for certain...<em>urgent discomforts</em> to settle. "As you may have heard, two days ago, Washington carried out a successful attack on our troops in Trenton."</p>
  <p>Lee's heart jumps into his throat, the fuzziness at the edges of his vision sharpening into perfect clarity in an instant. Immediately, he recognizes his error, understands that he's failed some test by the way Howe is steadily watching him, gauging his reaction to this news. </p>
  <p>"...You didn't know?" Howe asks. </p>
  <p>It's an awful idea, it will surely kill him, but Lee takes a hearty drink of wine to hide his mouth as he attempts to regain his bearings, put a neutral mask back on. "Unfortunately, Washington was rarely forthcoming with his plans too far in advance, as I'm sure you know. He took extra caution for the possibility of spies. That caution extends even to those of us that hold fairly high ranks. And if you're referring to the news of the success itself, I'm afraid I've previously been...indisposed. You'll have to read me in on the details if you aspire to extract any value from this conversation." </p>
  <p>"It was a bit of a surprise," Howe continues, still steadily watching Lee. Looking for a bluff, most likely. "Led his men and no small amount of artillery across the Delaware on Christmas night, no less."</p>
  <p>That flood of wine threatens to resurface in the back of Lee's throat, and he swallows a startled cough, holds his fist to his mouth to contain it. </p>
  <p><em>Christmas night</em>! He was on that goddamn ship for <em>two weeks</em>. Left to suffer in hell unnecessarily while Washington indecisively toiled on the riverbank doing <em>fuck all</em>. Those persistently demanding orders for Lee to rendezvous with him there, that led him right into this trap, feel all the more insulting now, unnecessarily reckless.</p>
  <p>That Washington was successful without him has Lee's teeth grinding. The frigid gale force winds coming in from the northeast have been especially unforgiving at night, lately. He remembers the way they rocked the Whitby just a couple of nights ago, bitter drafts slicing through the cracks in the hull, the nauseating sway of the ship at high tide that induced the most unpleasant bouts of vertigo. </p>
  <p>The Delaware is conveniently narrow in a lot of places, but paired with the inevitable ice sheets in the water and sleeting winds strong enough to knock a man over, it would have made such an endeavor nigh impossible. A suicide mission. Washington is either incredibly brave or incredibly desperate to pursue that caliber of recklessness. Even Lee's not that crazy.</p>
  <p>"I'm sure your troops were able to recover," Lee says with a heavy swallow. He thinks he's really going to be sick, right into his barely-touched plate of food.  </p>
  <p>"Nearly one thousand Hessian mercenaries have been captured or killed." </p>
  <p>This time, Lee is better at hiding his shock. Perhaps because his disgust eclipses it enough that his outward appearance is one of boredom. "Certainly you didn't expect a continued routine of strategic retreats," Lee says distantly. </p>
  <p>"'Strategic?'" Howe repeats, eyebrow raised in skepticism. </p>
  <p><em>Of course.</em> This presumably cordial dinner was meant to be a poorly-veiled interrogation. The way Howe presents this information suggests he either expects Lee to already know it or become emotionally compromised from learning it. </p>
  <p><em>He's gauging your value as an informant</em>.</p>
  <p>The revelation occurs to him like the first blinding flare of a sunrise peering over the horizon. The notion startles him, has him shifting uncomfortably in his seat. He understands he needs to be evasive and cryptic without outright lying, because his life may depend on it. And any ranking officer worth his weight in espionage knows that an interrogation goes a lot smoother when you stay as close to the truth as possible, and only omit or embellish the details that absolutely must be kept confidential.</p>
  <p>And '<em>strategic</em>' wasn't exactly the word Lee had meant to use, but Howe has read something into this and Lee figures it best to run with it.</p>
  <p>He shrugs dismissively as though it couldn't possibly matter. Best not to expound on that particular choice of words; let Howe infer what he wants from it. To drive the point home, Lee struggles to maintain a neutral expression as he forces himself through a couple more bites of food, another sip of wine. He's definitely going to be violently ill later - or possibly immediately - but he needs this to be convincing, needs to be as nonchalant as possible.</p>
  <p>"You mentioned secrecy to evade spies," Howe continues. "So you were aware of the ones within your ranks?" </p>
  <p>Lee keeps his eyes cast down at his food, doesn't offer even a twitch. "Spies are an inevitability in any theater of war. You have them among your own as well." </p>
  <p>It's unclear whether it's intentional or a result of uncontained tension, but Tarleton drops his utensils against his plate with a jarring clatter, and Lee surprises himself with his immense capacity for restraint. It startles him, but he doesn't jump or even stiffen - merely shifts his eyes toward the lieutenant and fixes him with an impatient glare. </p>
  <p>"<em>Who</em>?" Tarleton demands.</p>
  <p>Lee offers a sly smirk just as Howe silences Tarleton with a restraining hand. </p>
  <p>"As I'm sure you're aware," Howe says haltingly, "misleading intelligence has been frequently passed along to my men, which is why the rumors that Washington planned to cross the Delaware and attack Trenton weren't taken seriously and my mercenaries were taken by surprise. I need to convene with the informant who leaked this intelligence, but we've had no luck tracing it back to the source."</p>
  <p>Lee's eyebrows raise slightly. "You're unable to identify your own spies?" he says, the hint of a taunting smile deepening the lines framing his mouth. </p>
  <p>"Missives must always be passed through multiple degrees of command before reaching their intended destination. No one ever speaks to the informant in person, so we can't be sure when the information is genuine or rumor from enemy tampering."</p>
  <p>Lee rests his elbow on the table, chin resting against his palm in a mock display of intrigue. "Well that's very interesting, isn't it?" he says.</p>
  <p>Howe slams his hand against the table again, and the impact reverberates through the wood so forcefully that Lee jerks backward when it hits his elbow. He draws a long breath to calm his surge of fury, nostrils flaring as he fixes Howe with a warning glare. </p>
  <p>"Is it you?" Howe asks between clenched teeth. "Have you been intercepting my spies, misleading my men this whole time and making them for fools? I know your games, General. I'll know if you're lying."</p>
  <p>"<em>Tch</em>," Lee huffs, whipping his napkin out and tossing it over his plate in a gesture of finality. "No you won't. Either way I answer that question would be wrong, though, wouldn't it? Not that my duties are any of your <em>fucking </em>concern while I've been under someone else's command, and you're in no place to hold them against me when I don't answer to you anymore. Why even bring me here as an adviser if you suspect I'd mislead you? You're setting up the most conspicuous trap for me here, and frankly, I'm embarrassed for you. I thought you had more gravitas than that. It's sloppier than I remember you. If it's going to be like this, we might as well just rendezvous behind the gunpowder magazine now, since you've clearly already made up your mind about me and my intentions."</p>
  <p>Howe leans back in his chair, shoulders slumped as he closes his eyes, rubbing his palm across his forehead. Lee watches him closely, recognizes the look of a man trying to ground himself because the room is spinning. Howe had already been drinking well before Lee arrived, had already been distracted with the promise of sexual gratification. He'll need to retire soon, and Lee's already limited energy is waning; he needs to get out of here, soon. </p>
  <p>"Why bring me here when you did?" Lee asks softly. He's glaring daggers at Howe, ignoring the way Tarleton stiffens. "Why now? I was on that purgatory of a ship for two weeks. Presumably to be exiled and left for dead. Why fetch me when you did when you're clearly still unconvinced I'm worth the risk?"</p>
  <p>Howe abruptly leans forward. "I didn't know of your whereabouts or that you were even still alive until just yesterday. I'd have sent for you if I'd known sooner," he says defensively. "It was never my intention to facilitate your torture."</p>
  <p>Lee idly fidgets with the silverware, runs his finger along the edge of his knife with a look of boredom. He lifts it up, vainly inspects his reflection in the flattened side of the blade, sweeps his pinkie through the lock of hair that's rakishly tumbled over his brow, then carefully sets the knife back down - <em>reverently</em>, even, a conspicuous gesture that could be easily interpreted as a threat. </p>
  <p>"I find it suspiciously convenient that you only came to be aware of this information the day after Washington manages a devastating attack on your troops." </p>
  <p>It's subtle, but there's a soft creak of wood coming from Tarleton's direction. As though his hand has tightened around the edge of the table or he's stiffened in his seat. Howe's expression has blanked, as though it's just occurring to him that this is, in fact, a little too fortuitous.</p>
  <p>"Your whereabouts were leaked to Cornwallis by a reliable source who claimed to have seen you disposing of the dead on the beach," Howe says, but his tone is distant, as though he's speaking more to himself.</p>
  <p>Lee's eyes shift to Tarleton and steadily fixate on him, but the lieutenant keeps his eyes cast downward. His shoulders heave slightly with barely-contained panicked breath, and Lee smirks at him. </p>
  <p>"How fortunate for me," Lee says, deadly quiet. His gaze slides back to Howe. "And who was this reliable source, pray tell?"</p>
  <p>Howe impatiently waves him off. "Why does it matter? Cornwallis didn't deem it important enough to say, nor I to ask. They saved your life, what more can you ask for?"</p>
  <p>"Transparency, for one. You still haven't answered my question. What. Is. It. You. Require. Of. Me." He enunciates each word in short, staccato bursts through clenched teeth. </p>
  <p>He didn't have the patience or the energy for this to dovetail into a cryptic game of leading questions, and he's swiftly growing bored and agitated. Lee recognizes the tactic for what it is - he's employed it himself, plenty of times - wear down your detainee's stamina and resistance by leading them through an assault of confusing conversation, trap questions, and perpetually shifting emotions. Howe is doing it rather sloppily, though. </p>
  <p>"A training manual," Howe says, steepling his fingers. "Contingency plans, dossiers, detailed analysis of rebel strategy and espionage. My men need instructions for any potential scenario. Washington may be an irresponsibly polite man, but those under his command are...unpredictable." He gestures vaguely toward Lee, as though he's a demonstration of that fact. "I need to know them. Their motives, their impulses. You should be well acquainted with all of that, should you not?"</p>
  <p>Lee's contempt for him flares. He has to take extra effort to keep his jaw relaxed, to soften his eyes, to still the sneer that twitches at his mouth. "It would seem so," he says tightly. </p>
  <p>He dares not voice it, but he finds it impertinently bold that Howe trusts Lee will comply with all of this without manufacturing false intel to mislead the British, especially considering this is a significant problem for him already. And is, admittedly, exactly what Lee intends to do as well. Perhaps Howe suspects this already, which just means he'll have to be smart about it. It's a disturbingly warped game of chess; the understanding that Lee will have to occasionally sacrifice his own men with accurate intelligence just to convince Howe that he's truly working in favor of the crown. </p>
  <p>There's also the tacit warning that even if Lee plays his cards perfectly, it still doesn't guarantee his safety here. If at any point his contributions here are no longer deemed valuable or necessary, he'll either be hanged or sentenced to death by firing squad, likely without a trial. He considers it's in his best interest to play Howe's lust for him for everything it's worth. </p>
  <p>"Will that be all, then?" Lee says after a considerable silence, making his best efforts to temper his tone. He was going for deferential, but it came out sounding impatient and tired. </p>
  <p>Howe has kept an unnervingly steady gaze on him this entire time, pupils fat and eyes glazed with inebriation or longing or both. "In a hurry to leave us so soon? I was hoping you could stay a while longer. I rather enjoy your company, Lee, your treason notwithstanding."</p>
  <p>Lee feels his cheek twitch. He lightly runs his finger along the edge of his knife again - the temptation to use it is strong. He calculates how accurately he might hurl it across the table into Tarleton's face as fatigued as he is, if he has the energy to react quickly enough in the two seconds it would take Howe to respond. He wonders if he might manage to do this stealthily enough that the other guards won't hear a struggle, and then pull off an escape before being discovered.</p>
  <p>No, too high of a risk. The margin of error too wide.</p>
  <p>He's grown bored with keeping up appearances, and his irritability is spiking considerably, has him prone to behaving recklessly. He needs to get out of here <em>now</em>, before he does something there's no coming back from.</p>
  <p>"Considering how slow the process is for useful intelligence to reach you - and that your adversaries are intercepting and altering it in transit - it would behoove you to know I was confined to a diseased prison ship for the past two weeks where they weren't nearly as hospitable with the food and drink as you've been here. Naturally, I'm feeling rather unwell at the moment and would prefer to retire to my chambers so I might be better prepared to accommodate your demands."</p>
  <p>Lee braces himself; pointing this out was a gamble. You never confronted the British with their negligence, as they'd just as soon punish you for their own errors. A heavy silence blankets the room, and Tarleton looks ready to lunge across the table at him.</p>
  <p>Howe seems unaffected, fortunately. Too preoccupied with getting his cock wet, probably. Or perhaps wisely disinclined to provoking a notoriously temperamental soldier at his wit's end with nothing left to lose. "Well, that's unfortunate," Howe says dismissively. "Very well, then. I'll send for Young to escort you back to your quarters." </p>
  <p>The legs of Tarleton's chair stutter frantically against the floor as he pushes away from the table and abruptly rises. "No need," he says hastily, "I'll escort him myself." </p>
  <p>Lee slowly turns his face up toward Tarleton, fixing him with a deadened stare of knowing amusement, eyes glittering with a silent challenge. He lets Tarleton see the smirk that slowly curves his mouth, an artfully polite threat that conveys Lee's suppressed jubilation at getting a moment with him alone. Tarleton is a pompous son of bitch, often successfully hides his insecurities behind arrogance, but right now, his composure wavers in the way his eye twitches, in the way his throat flexes as he swallows. </p>
  <p>"Fine," Howe says, waving him off. "Do hurry though, I still have need of you." </p>
  <p><em>Yeah, I'll bet you do</em>, Lee thinks as he rises from his seat, never breaking his gaze from Tarleton. This should be interesting. </p>
  <p>Once out of earshot of the dining hall, Tarleton hastens his steps, outpaces Lee so that he can whirl around in front of him, blocking his way forward. Lee had every intention of complying, of this merely being a tense silence all the way back to his quarters just to fuck with Tarleton's obvious growing unease; but of course Tarleton would have to say <em>something</em>. Make a scene, like he always does.</p>
  <p>Lee coolly stares down at him, waiting patiently. The smug smirk twitches at the corner of his mouth again, just to show Tarleton how unperturbed he is right now. </p>
  <p>"Nothing ever gets past you, does it?" Tarleton hisses. </p>
  <p>It's unclear what he's referring to, but Lee has a hunch. Best to let the lieutenant confess all the damning information about his own actions himself, while he's slightly impaired by drink and a nervous conscience.</p>
  <p>"I'm afraid I've no idea what you're talking about," Lee says. </p>
  <p>"Don't be fatuous, Lee," he snaps. "That act may be effective on Howe, but it gets nowhere with me. You ask too many questions, leak too much sensitive information, and then have the nerve to play the innocent victim. One of these days, your impertinent mouth is going to land you in more trouble than you're prepared to handle."</p>
  <p>"Is that a threat?" Lee asks dryly. "Because I don't have the patience for any more cryptic tripe tonight. You'll have to be a little more explicit in what you're demanding of me here." </p>
  <p>Tarleton's cheeks pink, his hand flying to the hilt of his saber.</p>
  <p>Just as abruptly, that uncontrollable animal of instinct within Lee is responding, has him stepping into Tarleton's space, forcing him to stumble back as Lee advances on him.</p>
  <p>Lee steers him against the wall and settles his hand over Tarleton's where it rests on his saber. </p>
  <p>"What were you planning on doing here, hm?" Lee asks, bringing his nose an inch from Tarleton's. "Surely you had no expectations of cutting me down, right here in the fucking servant's corridor? Howe may be fond of you, but there's a limit to the amount of disobedience he'll tolerate, even from you. You'd certainly never get away with so crudely disposing of an asset. Certainly even you aren't that reckless. Or stupid."</p>
  <p>"You overestimate your importance here." </p>
  <p>He's trying to sound smug, but he fumbles the delivery when his voice wavers. </p>
  <p>"Oh?" Lee challenges. "Who are you trying to convince by saying that? Me, or yourself? So why not do it, then?" His hand tightens over Tarleton's knuckles, forcing the blade just an inch out of its sheath. "Why not test that little theory right now?"</p>
  <p>Tarleton pants shallowly, ramming the sword back home.</p>
  <p>Lee can feel the conniving little cur's heart racing. They're standing so close. </p>
  <p>"Don't squander this opportunity, Lee. Understand that this could be a very symbiotic arrangement between you and me. I fabricated the anonymous report of your whereabouts and leaked it to Cornwallis, but you knew that already, didn't you? We weren't anticipating such an ambitious defeat in Trenton. You being miraculously found alive could prove promising for the exchange of the Hessians Washington captured. His treatment of them has been surprisingly merciful and we couldn't afford to give him any reason to rescind that charity. He's been inquiring about you relentlessly, demanding to know what manner you're being treated. We had to make...adjustments."</p>
  <p>"<em>We</em>?" Lee repeats with a laugh. "You mean <em>you</em>. You intentionally misled your superiors about the nature of my capture and then once it threatened to endanger your position here, you covered up your lie in the most cowardly manner. Don't you dare presume to speak for them. So I'm assuming my rumored demise never reached Washington, then? You couldn't even offer him the courtesy of informing him of the manufactured death of his second in command? Which would imply even your superiors were complicit in keeping it secret, prepared to still use me as a tool to bargain with." </p>
  <p>Just entertaining this concept sparks a flare of anger in his chest; he can't escape British exploitation, even in death.</p>
  <p>Tarleton's eyes widen in the most unconvincing display of innocence and he frantically shakes his head. "I never intended to keep you there forever. The plan was never for you to - "</p>
  <p>Lee slams his palm against the wall just next to Tarleton's head, the impact so heavy that it rattles the ornamental glass shades in the wall-mounted sconces. "<em>How in the fuck did you ever manage to get them to buy your lies</em>," Lee seethes. "You're so horrendously bad at it. It really must speak to the embarrassing gullibility and incompetence of British high command that <em>you </em>of all peoplewere able to deceive them."</p>
  <p>Tarleton's face hardens, his jaw tightening. "Oh? The same might be said about you."</p>
  <p>"I've deceived no one," Lee snarls. "I've been straightforward with my motives and intentions since my official resignation. A far nobler quality than you might ever be capable of."</p>
  <p>Tarleton's gaze loses focus, like he's mesmerized by the way Lee is glaring at him. This isn't anything new; Lee is aware of the effect he can have on people, that his eyes have a unique intensity, their near-black darkness somehow able to convey a warmth that shouldn't be possible, even in anger. They're always a little too focused, a little too expressive, the sclera a near-bleached white that dramatically contrasts with the impossible dark of his irises so that one has no choice but to stare, enraptured. Lee has used this effect to his advantage to hypnotize and disarm many an adversary, as he does now. </p>
  <p>Plus, Tarleton is drunk. Easily pliable. </p>
  <p>In a monumental display of resolve, Tarleton drags his eyes away from Lee's, settling conspicuously on his mouth. </p>
  <p>"It's easy to see why Howe fancies you," Tarleton whispers. His hand leaves the hilt of his saber, rises to the space between them, then hesitates in mid-air. Finally he rests his thumb on Lee's bottom lip, and Lee stiffens, but allows it. "Your mouth always has that perpetual pout. You have no idea how enticing it is. As is your fury. It excites him, you know." </p>
  <p>He can still feel Tarleton's heart racing. So fast. The predator in Lee stirs.</p>
  <p>Lee takes hold of Tarleton's outstretched arm, wraps his fingers around his wrist, squeezes. It's just forceful enough to uncomfortably press the bones of his forearm together, coaxing a distressed yelp out of him. He forces Tarleton's hand down, grips him by the shoulder, spins him around so he can shove the man's chest against the wall. </p>
  <p>Tarleton, notably, doesn't fight him. </p>
  <p>Lee crowds up behind him, covers Tarleton's back with the broadness of his chest, really lets him feel his body heat. Leans in close. Lets him appreciate the gust of breath against the back of his neck. Tarleton's own breathing slows, his eyes flutter shut, a tremor slurs through him. Standing this close, leaning in with his lips nearly touching the lieutenant's ear, Lee can smell the herbal-sweet poppy scent of laudanum on his breath. Drink isn't the only thing impairing Tarleton tonight. </p>
  <p>"So this is what you wanted, then?" Lee murmurs. His chest jumps with a suppressed laugh. "It is, isn't it? Look at you, so desperate for it. You'd love nothing more than for me to fill that treasonous little rear of yours, wouldn't you?"</p>
  <p>Some pathetic sound comes out of Tarleton, something caught between a choked-off grunt and a mewl. The pitch of his voice cracks up, reedy and shrill. He's enjoying this a little too much, and it gives Lee pause - how much power this gives him. This is definitely something he can use to his advantage. Beyond that, this is doing nothing for him, personally - Tarleton disgusts him, a coward and a lout hiding behind performative savagery and aggression. </p>
  <p>But the satisfaction of agency is invigorating.</p>
  <p>Voice barely above a whisper, Lee breathes against his ear - "<em>So easy</em>. It would be so easy to kill you like this. So careless. So sloppy and unbecoming of a lieutenant."</p>
  <p>And just as abruptly as the encounter began, Lee steps off of him.</p>
  <p>Takes a fluid stride backwards, stops, observes. </p>
  <p>Tarleton is a wreck, shoulders heaving, cheeks flushed, pupils fat as he uncertainly turns on his heel. There's a quiver of irritation in the set of his brow, the crinkle of his nose - he's trying desperately to be angry, but his head is purely swimming in opiates, wine, sex euphoria. Lee waits. </p>
  <p>It takes an extended moment for Tarleton to compose himself, to get his breathing under control. </p>
  <p>"So what's stopping you?" Tarleton says finally, breathless. </p>
  <p>"You overestimate your importance here," Lee echoes back at him. "If I ever intend to assassinate my way through British high command, you'd be the least of my priorities."</p>
  <p>Tarleton manages to finally find his anger, lunges forward. Lee is quicker though, was expecting this. So predictable. He intercepts Tarleton with a hand around his throat, slams his head back against the wall. </p>
  <p>"Unless you're that determined to give me a reason," Lee hisses, hand tightening around Tarleton's neck. "You think I don't know what you're doing here? I'll hang if I do anything to you, or to Howe. And clearly you're dedicated to provoking me into doing it. You must be aware that any further schemes you have to dispose of me will result in me taking you down with me. Surely you must know that."</p>
  <p>A vein flickers in Tarleton's forehead, his eyes are bloodshot and glistening. He's desperate to draw breath, face crimsoning, pulse pounding frantically in Lee's palm. Yet there's a conspicuous bulge pressing against Lee's thigh, and he can't help the huff of amusement that escapes him as he realizes Tarleton is <em>thoroughly enjoying this</em>. </p>
  <p>He nudges his thigh up between Tarleton's legs, gives him some friction as his grip on Tarleton's throat squeezes tighter. His eyes roll back, the color slowly fades from his face, a constrained whimper struggles within the confines of Lee's stranglehold. Tarleton's body relaxes and his arms go limp, he doesn't even try to fight it. Lee gives him another nudge of his thigh, grinds against the man's swollen cock. Tarleton's hips jump, pushing back into it as if he can't help himself, depraved and shameless.</p>
  <p>He's starting to drift off, his pulse is slowing. </p>
  <p>"I could put you to sleep just like this," Lee murmurs, eyes searching Tarleton's blanching face, carefully watching for the signs that he's been brought to the brink. Mouth slack, the whites of his eyes mere slivers beneath heavy eyelids, weight sagging in Lee's grip. </p>
  <p>Then Lee releases him.</p>
  <p>Steps back to give him just enough room to stumble to one knee, his shoulders hunched, head bowed, entire body heaving with gasping breaths. Lee emptily stares down at him, allows him to catch his breath, notes that the lieutenant's eyes are fixated on Lee's boots, which must be the only thing within his field of vision, doubled over like this. Probably expecting one of those boots to catch him under the chin and kick him backwards into the wall, which is tempting. </p>
  <p>But Lee has restraint. </p>
  <p>Instead he grips Tarleton by the elbow and hauls him up, then unceremoniously props him up against the wall. It's a small charity Tarleton wasn't expecting from the likes of Lee, and there's still a very obvious bulge straining against his breeches, his eyes still unfocused with the entranced surrender of arousal. </p>
  <p>"<em>General</em>," Tarleton huffs, an airy wheeze that sounds like a benediction. He's visibly trembling, either from nerves or arousal or exhaustion or all of the above.</p>
  <p>Lee rolls his eyes.</p>
  <p>"I'm not your general," Lee says coldly. "But you'd better go and let him tend to you, now that I've got you all warmed up for him. I hear he doesn't like to be kept waiting. I can see myself to my quarters."</p>
  <p>Tarleton lets him go without a fight; he doesn't have the capacity to stop him, but also, Lee has nowhere to go. There are sentries stationed around the state house at all hours. He'd never make it far and Tarleton knows it. It's the most luxurious of prisons, but he's still trapped here, still in constant danger.</p>
  <p>Lee leaves him without a glance back, briskly traversing the corridors with the urgency of discomfort. Daggers are stabbing his insides, his head is heavy, his legs unreliable. The food and the wine were too much for him - it will be a while before he can properly digest anything - and he's quickly expended all the energy he already didn't have. He pushed himself too far tonight, let his temper push him to a dangerous limit.</p>
  <p>It's satisfying, though - the effect he had on the lieutenant. It was really just an experiment on Lee's part, to see how much power he might have if he used seduction as a weapon. He wonders if the son of a bitch actually followed his orders and scurried off to his master to get taken care of or if he sank to the floor, pulled himself out of his breeches, and abused himself right there in the hallway. </p>
  <p>Unfortunate that Lee is too out of sorts to gloat in it. </p>
  <p>There are no sentries guarding his door, fortunately. No one would know when to expect his return. Inside, it's blissfully warm, a servant having lit a new fire in the hearth. More fresh food and water and wine has been laid out for him that he's unlikely to touch, just as before. </p>
  <p>He's always had heightened senses - a byproduct of being honed by a lifetime of military training and espionage, so the scent of the overripe fruit is incredibly overwhelming in his current state, especially after breathing nothing but decay for two weeks. He's inclined to wrench open a window and hurl the lot of it at the guards that will be inevitably stationed below. It's so stifling.</p>
  <p>Instead, he retreats into the study, seeking refuge from the perfumed assault of the parlor. It's marginally better. There's an earthy scent of leather and parchment and newly-cut wood, underscored by just a small alchemical hint of fresh ink. But the room also has an unsettling energy, like passing through the door was akin to walking over his own grave. He'll have to advise the murder of many allies here. If he ever comes out the other end of this captivity alive and is allowed to return to the Continental Army, word of his forced treason here will likely surface. His superiors and colleagues will come to see him as a traitor. But Howe will shoot him in the head, otherwise.</p>
  <p>He's ruined, either way.</p>
  <p>He reluctantly sinks into the chair behind the desk, buries his face in his hands, and weeps. It's soft, dignified, discreet enough that should his guards resume their post outside his door, they won't hear. He really doesn't fucking care anymore, but there's a time where he would have felt shame at this - that he's cried more in the past week than he has in his entire life. He weeps for the horrors he experienced on that ship, the cruel deaths of so many prisoners, the deaths of rebels he'll soon be responsible for, the inevitable death of his beloved career. </p>
  <p>He thinks he's going to vomit. Either that, or it's just the hollow of despair snaking its way through his gut. He needs to lie down or he'll be face-planting into the desk soon. </p>
  <p>It's too stifling, suddenly - the warmth of the fire radiating throughout the suite, the heavy, restrictive layers of his clothes. He feels damp under all these rich fabrics, can feel the sheen of feverish sweat break out on his brow. He's constricted, starts unfastening his buttons with a frenzied urgency as he rises to his feet. He sheds his layers as he flees the oppressive confines of his study, haphazardly dropping articles of clothing in his wake as he retreats to the bedchamber. </p>
  <p>Sliding between the covers feels much like nailing the lid of his coffin shut. He drifts restlessly in a place suspended halfway between dreams and waking, his anxious thoughts retreating to his subconscious so that they become a hybrid of waking nightmares, constantly having him start awake confused and unsure of where he is or what he's supposed to be doing. </p>
  <p>For some reason, his mind keeps throwing him back to the southern theater of war, as if it's a place of refuge to protect him from his new reality. And why wouldn't it be? It was one of the last places his reputation was still admirable, one of the last places where he'd truly had any agency; free from Washington's tireless demands, free of the exploitation of the British. The last place he felt he had any semblance of power over Generals Howe and Clinton. </p>
  <p>His elaborate schemes to put the south into a state of defense was nothing short of genius; his goal was never about outright conquest of the British, but rather a military demonstration that would impress those who might be reluctant to join the rebel cause in East Florida and Georgia.</p>
  <p> </p>
  <p><em>In Georgia</em>...</p>
  <p> </p>
  <p>She'd been the wife of some British lieutenant colonel or other. </p>
  <p>He hadn't intended to enlist the assistance of a neglected and mistreated wife. Hadn't even expected to cross paths with one. For all intents and purposes, she wasn't even supposed to be residing in the estate he was casing - or rather, lurking about the property in the night to get a better understanding of the layout of the place should it become useful later.</p>
  <p>Or need to be seized by rebel forces.</p>
  <p>It had been a balmy night, damp and smelling of impending rain, the moon large and low over the willows, their tendrils swaying gently in the breeze. The air was pregnant with the suffocating, cloying fragrances of wisteria and crepe myrtle, warmed by the musky spice of the coal in the lit braziers around the adjoining courtyard.</p>
  <p>His footfalls had been silent in the damp grass, so when he'd emerged from behind one of the cypresses lining the low wall of the courtyard, she'd given a startled yelp and taken an abrupt step back, bracing herself with a hand clutching the railing behind her.  </p>
  <p>He'd been torn between two instincts in that moment; eliminate all witnesses that might relay damning information, or manipulate his way out.</p>
  <p>It had taken about two seconds for him to assess the darkened windows of the house, the unfurnished and dusty mezzanine, the absence of any servant movement. She was alone here. The woman herself had looked weary, and still conspicuously dressed as though prepared to receive guests in the wee hours of the morning. </p>
  <p>"And who might you be expecting so late in the night, madam?" he asked, his footsteps cautious and measured as he approached. </p>
  <p>He ruminated for a moment on what she must see - a stranger in a high-ranking rebel's uniform, partially concealed in shadow and probably looking particularly ominous as he blinked in and out of view, slipping behind the evenly-spaced cypresses. He watched her from the corner of his eye as he rounded the perimeter, watched her crane her neck to better see him as he momentarily reappeared between the foliage, and when he finally came to mount the step to the courtyard entrance, she looked ready to make a run for it. </p>
  <p>He held his arms out at his sides, palms facing her as he calmly approached her. Slow, even footsteps. Not threatening, but calculating. "I'm not here to harm you. But I'd prefer if you kept this encounter to yourself. As I'm sure you're aware, circumstances could become very unfortunate for me should your husband or any of his associates learn of my presence here tonight."</p>
  <p>Her expression and posture immediately went from alarmed to indignant. But then he stepped into the glow of the braziers, the firelight illuminating his face for the first time, and she hesitated. How quaint her mouth looked then, slightly open as though on the verge of unleashing some scolding diatribe, but instead all that came out was a soft gasp. Possibly she hadn't expected someone so decorated to be so relatively young. Or handsome. </p>
  <p>He had stopped advancing on her then, just stood in place to let the glow of the fire flood over him, gave her space to let her inspect him from the safety of this distance. </p>
  <p>"And what are you doing here, then?" she asked. "I can't imagine you're up to anything virtuous, prowling about in the night like some monster from a fairy tale."</p>
  <p>He shrugged. He wasn't going to dispute that.</p>
  <p>"That's not an answer. What are you doing here?"</p>
  <p>He took a step closer, gauging her reaction. She didn't freeze or shrink away, her suspicion of him eclipsed by her curiosity. </p>
  <p>"I'm not at liberty to discuss that with civilians," he said. He took another step closer, calm and halting. "So can I rely on your discretion, madam? I can arrange for you to be handsomely compensated for your cooperation."</p>
  <p>She raised an eyebrow. "Compensated with what?"</p>
  <p>He smiled, took another step closer. And another. Closing the distance between them. "Whatever you like."</p>
  <p>Her expression went from one of curiosity to impatience. "What might you offer me that I don't already have?" </p>
  <p>Lee shrugged again. "With the manner in which the British treat their colonial subjects, I can't imagine they offer much more hospitable treatment to their wives."</p>
  <p>He let the sentence hang on the air, let her really absorb the implications. Her eyes narrowed - she's as versed in this game as Lee. Tyrants and vile husbands had a tendency to share the same motives, tactics, goals. </p>
  <p>"I suspect I might be more adept at coming to an arrangement to earn your loyalty than your husband is," Lee continued, and he took her hand and bent to kiss her knuckles in a display of respect, but at the last minute, turned her palm upward and pushed the hem of her sleeve up so he could press his lips to her wrist instead.</p>
  <p>Her slow, heavy exhale was all the answer he needed.</p>
  <p>He raised his eyes to meet hers.</p>
  <p>A light rain had begun pattering through the wild taro leaves by the time he was buried inside her on one of the lounges furnishing the courtyard. Lee couldn't have asked for more opportune conditions - he had to at least give credit to the perfect night for his success in earning her trust and her silence. </p>
  <p>But even more fortuitous was the reliability of British hubris. It's easy to engineer one's own betrayal when all you do is create victims who are easily radicalized, then weaponized against you. </p>
  <p>He considered this deeply, in the cold sobriety that followed satiation. She'd already begun to doze off, her head on his shoulder, cheek nestled against the hollow of his collarbone. With the hyperaware clarity of sexual gratification, Lee had marveled at how painfully easy it was. Perhaps even suspiciously easy. How a British army wife could have been seduced so effortlessly, and fall asleep so easily in the presence of a complete stranger fighting on behalf of opposing forces.</p>
  <p>And then he spied the courier, lurking around the perimeter of the grounds. </p>
  <p>The braziers were beginning to die down, and the two of them were concealed by the low wall of the courtyard and the bushes surrounding it, so the courier would have had to really be looking for them to see them. But Lee kept his eyes on the figure, an indistinct silhouette in the darkness that registered as just a subtle bit of movement against the backdrop of trees. </p>
  <p>Could this have been the visitor she'd been expecting? He kept his eyes trained on the silhouette, who crept around the stone fence of the property. Too dark to see, Lee strained to make out the intruder's movements. He seemed to dislodge one of the stones and place something in the vacant space before returning the stone to its home. </p>
  <p>And then he departed as swiftly and silently as he'd arrived. </p>
  <p>Testing the awareness of his new companion, Lee gently extricated himself from her and approached the area of the wall that the courier tampered with, using light, careful touches upon the stones to find the loose one. When he found the right one, a small envelope sealed with the stamp of the royal coat of arms was waiting behind it. Just begging to be intercepted. </p>
  <p>Knowing the location of a British dead drop was as valuable as silver these days. </p>
  <p>Lee smiled to himself, pleased with his resourcefulness, then hurried to return to his newly acquired asset, who had just begun to stir on the lounge where he left her.</p>
  <p>Discreetly tucking the missive into the breast pocket of his coat, he knelt down to rouse her. She seemed restless in her sleep, and he considered - arrogantly - that it might have been inspired by his sudden absence. But that couldn't be possible - they'd only just met. She doesn't care about him.</p>
  <p>"...Madam," he said, internally chastising himself for not bothering to get her name before he fucked her. </p>
  <p>She responded to the soft insistence in his tone, her eyes cracking open just slightly. </p>
  <p>"Perhaps we should get you inside. There could be all manner of unsavory types lurking about...as you're well aware. Is your husband expected shortly?"</p>
  <p>She responded with drowsy indifference, soft fingertips gliding over his chest as though to invite him to lie back down with her.</p>
  <p>The sealed envelope in his pocket burned a hole against his chest, meanwhile.</p>
  <p>After a cursory glance around the perimeter for witnesses, he gathered her up and carried her into the parlor of the house, like some morbid counterfeit of a groom carrying his bride across the threshold. After the quick calculations of a veteran spy, he settled on laying her on the settee right there in the parlor, and carefully rearranged her disheveled bodice and skirts to make it appear as though a distraught wife had stayed up all night waiting on a husband she actually cared about, rather than one that had spent the evening seeking solitude in the arms of an enemy soldier.</p>
  <p>As soon as he'd begun to pull away, she'd entwined her fingers in his hair - not hard enough to pull, just enough to lock him in place - and mumbled something that sounded like <em>You'll come back, won't you?</em></p>
  <p>Palm compulsively hovering over the sealed envelope in his pocket, looking like a sincere vow with his hand over his heart, his reflexive response was <em>Of course</em>.</p>
  <p>And he'd kept his promise.</p>
  <p>She would turn out to be a most resourceful spy. </p>
  <p>He couldn't have anticipated that in the moment though - still distrustful of the ease of their union and anxious to see what lucky intelligence he'd just stumbled upon, he'd rummaged about the room for a handy candelabrum, the necessary tinderbox in a drawer nearby, and lit the candles to let them burn down momentarily before softly blowing them out and setting it down on the table beside her. Just as a precaution - to make it seem as though she'd recently been whiling the night away in solitude and drifted off where she sat. </p>
  <p>On the front portico, he'd leaned a shoulder against one of the pillars of the house's façade and extracted the envelope from his pocket, sliding his thumb beneath the wax seal to break it - carefully, in case it needed to be resealed - and examined the contents of the letter. He hadn't expected anything fruitful, as these things typically came in need of a cipher.  </p>
  <p>This one needed none, however - and at first glance it just looked like a benign roster of names, but was in fact an itinerary for commanding officers - along with troop movements, locations of supply depots, and battle plans. </p>
  <p>A field report of this level of detail would be very valuable to Washington, indeed. Its legitimacy would need to be verified, of course - that it wasn't coded was suspect, it could be a decoy meant to mislead - but even those could be helpful in offering insight to the strategy of the enemy, based on what they <em>wanted</em> you to think. </p>
  <p>And it was safe to assume more of these messages would be forthcoming.</p>
  <p>He loitered there for a while, until the first rays of dawn crept over the horizon. No other visitors came in that time, and he kept his eyes trained on the changing hues of the sky, hating how summer sunrises in the south were often so unsightly. They tended to flush the color from everything for a few minutes, the sky a three-toned canvas of drab pale yellow, to dusty ochre, and deepening into washed-out blue.</p>
  <p>But he'd gained a new fondness for the south. The woman - Sophia, was her name - was an unexpected comfort. The proximity to British intelligence? Priceless. </p>
  <p>Some of the messages were indeed coded, but Sophia turned out to be incredibly resourceful in obtaining the cipher.</p>
  <p>He'd been poring over one such message, decrypting the contents with weary eyes by candlelight one evening, when she'd spontaneously confessed that she'd never experienced sexual excitement before meeting Lee. </p>
  <p>"I never imagined laying with a man could be enjoyable," she said idly, gazing out the window at the setting sun. </p>
  <p>He'd heard the words at first, but was too engrossed in decoding the missive before him to truly absorb them. Then the implication struck him so profoundly that his head abruptly snapped up, and he twisted in his seat to fix her with a look of concern.</p>
  <p>"Does your husband take you by force?" he asked soberly.</p>
  <p>She stiffened as though startled, and her hazy reflection in the glass looked as though she regretted saying as much. She shrugged. "It isn't forced if we're wed, is it?"</p>
  <p><em>The bloody hell it isn't</em>, he thought. What a barbaric custom, that a woman could be denied choice and pleasure simply because a husband demanded her body. Lee may have been a bit of a rake, but he was certainly no rapist. </p>
  <p>He rose from his seat then, and cautiously crossed the room to her, coming to stand just behind her so that she could see the reflection of his face in the window. "Does he?" Lee asked again, voice dangerously soft. "Does he take you when you don't want it?"</p>
  <p>She pressed her lips together, jaw clenching as though to keep her chin from trembling. "I never even wanted to be married to him."</p>
  <p>He hesitantly drew his arms around her waist, expecting her to not want to be touched just then. He set his chin on her shoulder, watching the last sliver of sun sink below the horizon. Sunsets in the south were far more enchanting than its sunrises. Deep indigo in the east, fading into a dusky rose that came aflame with a glow of scarlet just on the horizon. The trees were an inky purple against the backdrop of color, eerily still in the windless evening. It looked so artificial in its picturesque landscape of color, too mesmerizingly perfect, as though an artist had painted it.</p>
  <p>They were taking an immense risk, standing in full view of the window like this. The courier that delivered the secret missive had come and gone, but there was no telling who else might be around to see them together. In a way, Lee had hoped the husband would find out. So he could rub it in his face, taunt him with it. There was an immense satisfaction in knowing he'd been the first to ever bring another man's wife to orgasm.</p>
  <p>He pressed his lips to her neck, then let them brush against her ear. "I could arrange to get rid of him, you know," he whispered.</p>
  <p>She whirled around on him, face alight with contained fury. He released her, stepped back. </p>
  <p>"Are you suggesting you'd kill my husband?"</p>
  <p>"I'm suggesting that we're presently in the middle of a war, and casualties happen," he said slowly. "It's what you want, isn't it?"</p>
  <p>She slapped him, then took a swift step back, defensive, reacting with sudden horror at what he might do to retaliate. </p>
  <p>That hurt him the most, more than any slap could - that she'd been so conditioned by the cruelty of men, she truly expected him to harm her in response to a justifiable reaction. </p>
  <p>Slowly, so as not to startle her, to display he posed no threat, he raised his hand to smooth back the hair that had tumbled over his brow from the impact. He gave a slight bow. "Apologies," he said, overly formal. "It seems I've misjudged your wishes." He turned to leave, assuming she was so disgusted by him that she no longer required his presence.</p>
  <p>"I'd be ruined," she blurted out. "Perhaps I'd inherit his estate, but an unmarried woman of lucrative financial standing faces the threat of becoming a pariah. I'd just be sold off to another tyrant. I couldn't bear it, to go through this again."</p>
  <p>"You can't bear to go through it <em>now</em>!" He hadn't intended for it to come out sounding so passionate, so full of sympathy for her. So maybe he'd grown a little attached to her. </p>
  <p>"Don't presume I need saving or protecting, Lee. It's condescending. Your purpose is to provide comfort and no more. That is all I require of you."</p>
  <p><em>Oh</em>, and <em>that</em> hurt, too. Sure, he got around. It's not like she was the only one for him. He had no delusions about the seriousness or longevity of...whatever it was they were doing, but to say it out loud like that, to relegate him to a mere whore providing a service. He felt used, though he knew he had no right to feel indignation about it. Wasn't he using her as well, in a way? And to be fair, he considered being a whore something of a noble profession - he'd certainly employed plenty of them himself. He understood the necessity of comfort, of release.</p>
  <p>"Very well then," he conceded, a little more frostily than he'd have liked. Then, more gently: "Is there anything more you require of me tonight?"</p>
  <p>Eyes softened with apology and regret, she gave a plaintive nod.</p>
  <p>He gave her a sad half-smile. "Come here, then. Let me assist you with your lacings." </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p>Eventually, inevitably, the husband found out.</p>
  <p>Having learned of their frequent unions from a nosy solicitor, he'd waited in the dead of night at the mouth of the tree-shrouded road leading up to the house, motionless and quiet as he listened for the hoofbeats of Lee's approaching horse.</p>
  <p>The man's intent was to kill. There was never any doubt about that. He couldn't much use his pistol, as the sound would draw too much attention. When Lee arrived, far too perceptive and attuned to danger, it didn't take long for him to assess the out-of-place figure crouched near the waterline of the adjacent pond. Lee dismounted his horse in an instant, sliding gracefully to the ground, his boots making no sound on the impact, hand going for his trench knife. </p>
  <p>The colonel charged before Lee could get his hand around the hilt, colliding with his middle with such force that it knocked the wind out of him. His back hit the ground with dizzying impact. With Lee stunned and trying to relearn how to breathe, the colonel took advantage of his defenseless state and confiscated the knife Lee failed to draw. Instinct never failing him, Lee reflexively struck the man's wrist right on the tender jut of bone so that the pain reflex forced him to let go; the knife flew off, useless and out of reach. </p>
  <p>The colonel shoved off of him, scrambling in the muddy pond bank for the knife in the hope that he might reach it before Lee could regain his bearings.</p>
  <p>Struggling to get his limbs to respond, to force his lungs to expand, Lee's eyes slowly came back into focus and fell on the horsewhip hanging from his mount's saddle. No time to think, no time to try to regain his breath - he shot up with the last reserves of his strength and snatched up the whip, uncoiling it as he stumbled over to the colonel, who was still doubled over and searching for the lost weapon.</p>
  <p>It takes approximately two minutes to strangle a man to the point of no return. </p>
  <p>And a lot of physical strength and stamina, besides. Lee knew this well; he'd done it a number of times.</p>
  <p>Exhausted, still having difficulty refilling his lungs, Lee had slipped into that shuttered mode of himself that always took over his body when engaged in combat. </p>
  <p>He looped the whip around the colonel's throat. The leather creaked as he pulled it tight, tighter. </p>
  <p>The soft rhythm of the pond lapping at the bank made it all seem so idyllic in the perfectly still night - no wind, no chatter of wildlife, not a soul for miles. Just the creak of leather and the swallowed grunts of a dying man. </p>
  <p>The colonel put up a noble fight, fingers scrambling for the leather wrapped around his trachea, feet planting into the mud as he shoved backward, sending them toppling to the ground again. </p>
  <p>When strangling someone, the entire world recedes. All sound becomes muted save for the heavy thump of one's own heart and the panicked rasping of the victim. Two minutes is a long time. Sometimes, something else kills them. The hyoid bone snaps. The vertebrae in the neck become severed. To truly suffocate a person to death, the airway must be cut off for a longer period of time than a typical man's stamina can last.</p>
  <p>Lee is no typical man. </p>
  <p>The colonel writhed on top of him, fingers fruitlessly trying to loosen the whip around his throat, boots kicking into the mud, body twisting and contorting in a desperate attempt to free himself. </p>
  <p>Thirty seconds to unconsciousness. </p>
  <p>The colonel stopped struggling, fell limp.</p>
  <p>Lee could have stopped then. He could have just left the colonel there in the mud and disappeared, could have allowed him to eventually regain consciousness and live another day.</p>
  <p>But Lee couldn't erase the image of this wretched savage forcing himself on a most admirable lady, couldn't stop envisioning all the ways he must have mistreated her or spoken to her. </p>
  <p>There's no telling how quickly a subject might regain consciousness, either. Sometimes they blink back to awareness the moment the airway reopens and oxygen reanimates the lungs. Lee would have been taking a significant risk leaving him alive, might not possibly have enough time to put a substantial distance between him and his attacker.</p>
  <p>There were no children that would have suddenly become fatherless as a result. Sophia would be left with the bulk of her husband's estate and whatever salary he received as a ranking officer.</p>
  <p>So Lee kept the whip pulled taut around the man's neck, counted each slowing beat of the man's heart against him until it quit entirely.</p>
  <p>There's a certain amount of mental fortitude required to strangle a man to death. It's so unlike snapping a person's neck, or slitting their throat, or pelting them with grapeshot. It's not quick, or merciful. You spend the entirety of their last moments with them, feeling the life drain out of them, a firsthand witness to their pitiful struggle to their last breath. </p>
  <p>Many can't stomach it. Many have a change of heart halfway through and give up.</p>
  <p>But not Lee.</p>
  <p>When it was over, he shoved the man off of him and laid on the ground staring up at the stars twinkling through the branches overhead, panting until his breathing returned to normal. Then he calmly got up, dragged the colonel down the bank of the pond, and left him floating there, face down in the water.</p>
  <p>His knife was right at the waterline, the waves gently lapping at it so that it was becoming partially concealed in the mud. He retrieved it and his whip, returned them to their rightful places, shook the leaves and soil from his coat, raked his fingers through his hair to tidy it, and reassembled himself as much as possible to ensure it didn't look like he'd just been a deadly skirmish.</p>
  <p>And then he went to Sophia as planned, as though nothing had happened.</p>
  <p>He knew it would be the last time he met with her. He was saddened, but didn't give any indication that anything was amiss. If he acted particularly morose or mawkish she'd quickly deduce why. So he just fucked her like she was his own wife, then let her doze off on his chest while he read another coded message by candlelight.</p>
  <p>"I've never felt safe enough to sleep in a man's presence," she'd mumbled sleepily. "I do with you, though."</p>
  <p>He'd tragically closed his eyes. <em>You'll not feel that way for much longer</em>.</p>
  <p> </p>
  <p>The following morning, he'd been in attendance of some committee or other, listening to a bunch of bureaucrats wring their hands over military expenditures and the unsavory code of conduct displayed by <em>certain soldiers</em>. Lee had barely been listening. </p>
  <p>At least it broke the monotony when Sophia burst into the room, distraught and furious. Less enjoyable was when she marched right up to Lee to shout in his face in front of his colleagues.</p>
  <p>"You killed him?! You really had to do it, didn't you? You had the nerve when I <em>told</em> you - "</p>
  <p>He'd risen to mollify her, and she beat at his chest with her fists. He allowed it for a moment, then gently took her wrists to stop her.</p>
  <p>"General, what is the meaning of this? Can someone have the lady escorted out, she's clearly hysterical," one of the administrators said.</p>
  <p>Lee shot him a cautionary glare and gave a subtle shake of his head to shut the man up. "Just give us a moment," he snapped. Then he turned back to her and ducked his head to look into her face. "The official reports I saw indicate that your husband drowned." </p>
  <p>The tearful fury in her eyes when she glanced up at him had him instantly regretting even attempting to lie about it.</p>
  <p>"With ligature marks around his throat? Lee, do you take me for a complete fool? I suppose you'd also suggest he strangled himself, then, did he?"</p>
  <p>At this, the men around the room shifted restlessly, and Lee felt a dozen pairs of eyes burning into him. </p>
  <p>"Can we discuss this privately?" he said tightly. "This isn't the time or place."</p>
  <p>"You foul serpent," she hissed, pounding his chest again after he'd released her. "You'd condemn me to the one thing I told you not to do, all for your <em>pride</em>. I <em>let you into my bed!</em>" </p>
  <p>The ensuing gasp just about sucked the air out of the room. Lee glanced furtively at the scandalized, imploring faces fixed on him, then quickly back to the woman. He wrapped his hand around the back of her neck, pulling her in close to bring his lips to her ear.</p>
  <p>"He ambushed me. He was waiting for me, he would have killed me. I had no choice. Do you understand? I've granted you your freedom."</p>
  <p>She stepped back immediately, trembling with renewed rage and betrayal. This time it wasn't a slap, but a strikingly powerful punch to his jaw. He had to commend her form, at least - he never would have expected her to deliver such a dizzying blow. Several of the men in the room shot to their feet, ready to restrain her, but Lee just clutched his jaw in his hand, pointing a warning finger at the first person to make a move after her as she stormed out.</p>
  <p>"Don't you dare," he commanded. "Just let her go."</p>
  <p>He tentatively tested his jaw, flexed it with a couple of painful pops. At least she didn't dislodge any teeth, and he'd heal just fine, if not for an occasional click in his jaw for the foreseeable future.</p>
  <p>And so his expedition in the south would come to a close.</p>
  <p>Washington's insistence that Lee repair to Philadelphia would have soon put an end to the fantasy, anyway. It couldn't have lasted forever. </p>
  <p>Now, he often finds himself wondering how he might have done things differently. If he even could have. He eventually would have been obligated to return to the north, regardless. He couldn't have stalled in Georgia forever. He couldn't much disobey direct orders and he certainly was no deserter. </p>
  <p>It occurs to him now that this always would have happened - he always would have ended up here, in this opulent prison, forced to betray his own people. This was why he dedicated his life to throwing himself at any war anywhere in the world - he was really just finding an excuse to escape the possessive toxicity of politics. </p>
  <p><em>I'm so tired of running</em>, he thinks. </p>
  <p>Something Tarleton said earlier resurfaces, unbidden:  <em>He's been inquiring about you relentlessly, demanding to know what manner you're being treated</em>.</p>
  <p>He hadn't thought much of it in the moment, too preoccupied with putting Tarleton in his place, but if it's true, that Washington is championing Lee's safety, it will just make what he's about to have to do that much harder.</p>
  <p>He wonders, fleetingly, if perhaps it would have been better for everyone had he just deserted after all.</p>
</blockquote>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>This was originally just the first half of chapter four, but the completed chapter ended up being a little over 25,000 words, so I've split it into two chapters. The next one will be up as soon as it's proofread and edited 😬</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Contemplation</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Valentine's Day chapter? VALENTINE'S DAY CHAPTER. This gets...nauseatingly sappy. </p><p>chapter warnings: more strangulation, amputation, incredibly sappy romance</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The water in the washbasin is disappointingly tepid, but at least it's not gone entirely cold. The antechamber for private washing is mercifully not as drafty as the main hall of the infirmary, at least.</p><p>Getting to it and back is a cumbersome chore, but Lee considers himself recovered enough to manage on his own. It's something of a luxury simply getting out of bed, finally. The extended inactivity has had him falling into lengthy states of listlessness, trapping him in his own head and losing his sense of purpose. It's a small reprieve just reclaiming the dignity to wash, shave, and dress himself again - a level of independence he'd previously taken for granted.</p><p>He marvels at the soap, holds it to his nose, really indulges in it; it's smooth, castile based, carefully milled. Smells of mint and citrus with a subtle hint of rosemary, rather than the typical lumpy, coarse brick of tallow one would expect. It's on par with the luxuries Lee had while imprisoned by the British - this fine bit of toiletry might have been imported from France or Spain. </p><p>But Lee has gotten to know the doctor rather well over the past weeks, and based on the neatly organized herbs and tinctures on the shelves in the infirmary - many of which Lee saw the man cultivate, crush, and mix himself - he wonders if Jones milled this soap himself as well. Its scent and composition are certainly in character for the most tidy, disciplined man he thinks he's ever met. </p><p>Jones has gone from frigid to lukewarm, in the meantime; not out of any change of heart, Lee suspects, but rather because Jones is the type of man who is very frugal with his emotions and wouldn't squander powerful things like hatred or disgust on the likes of Lee.</p><p>He laughs as he ponders this; he finds the concept incredibly charming, for some reason.</p><p>He sets to washing with obsessive thoroughness - subconsciously, he realizes that the fragrance smells so much like Jones, wants to cover himself in it - and then takes a straight razor to the overgrown sides of his scalp and too-neglected facial hair. It's difficult and tedious, painfully stretches his wound too much when he has to raise his arm too high, but he's become gaunter than he'd have liked during his inert state of convalescence and is desperate to look at least a little more like himself. The discomfort is worth it. Dressing himself is slightly more unpleasant, interspersed with grunts of pain and frustration any time he twists or bends the wrong way. It feels like an accomplishment just being able to do this much, but what little energy he had was expended on this one task. </p><p>Falling right back into bed is the only reasonable course of action, but unfortunately, that plan is immediately ruined upon emerging from the antechamber; Laurens can be seen just out the window, ducking against the light flurries that have begun to fall and carving a path through the snow-coated street. He's approaching the infirmary with a sense of self-satisfied urgency, and is the very last person Lee wants to see right now.</p><p>Lee abruptly whirls around, intent on retreating to a secure hiding spot until Laurens gives up and leaves, but can't quite hobble fast enough to escape before Laurens makes it through the door and sees him. </p><p>"Lee," he says, overly formal. </p><p>Lee freezes and slowly turns. Petra and Ursula trot over to sniff at Laurens, tails wagging - they seem to remember him. He reluctantly pats their heads, appears to be stalling, and Lee's palpable impatience as he stands partially hunched over, hand protectively clutching his side, has Laurens avoiding eye contact. It's novelty to see him so demure like this, but it's so out of character for him that Lee suspects it's largely performative. It tries his patience. </p><p>"State your business, Laurens."</p><p>"Perhaps you should lie down. Is it wise for you to be moving about so soon?" </p><p>Lee glares at him. Now he's <em>definitely </em>not going to lie down. "How charitable of you to offer such exemplary medical advice," he says. "Unfortunately I've already got someone to do that for me." </p><p>He turns his back to Laurens, hobbles to the nearest chair and heavily drops onto it. He leans back, presses his palm against the throb in his side, eyes closed. He can feel Laurens staring at him, can sense the tension coming off of him as he stands awkwardly near the door. He's probably deliberating on leaving, sensing that Lee doesn't have the stamina to deal with him just now. </p><p>But then his footsteps approach, halting and unsure, and come to a stop a couple of feet from where Lee sits. Because of course Laurens having the good sense to leave Lee in peace would have been too easy.</p><p class="">"You've no idea how you looked that day," Laurens says at length. "When they carted you off. I'd thought you were fine. Even you didn't seem to know you'd been grievously hurt, at first. You were still standing. But the blood stain grew so quickly, and then there was suddenly so much of it - and you stumbled, went stark-white like death itself - "</p><p>"No need to recount the details, Laurens, I was there. In fact I'd prefer you didn't, since it was profoundly traumatic for me, as it turns out."</p><p>Laurens hesitates and clears his throat, sporadically shifting his weight from one foot to the other and causing the wood to creak in a way that grates Lee's nerves. "After Burr and the doctor carried you away, I spotted the abrasion in the tree behind you, and that's when I realized the lead shot had gone right through you. I - panicked, I think. I don't remember, it's a blur - the days following that. I just need you to understand, things were never meant to go that far, Lee. It wasn't my intention to land a potentially fatal shot. The image of you on that morning has been stamped in my head ever since. It's kept me awake at night. I - "</p><p>Lee's eyes snap open and he darts upright, bringing a shock of pain with the movement. "Oh, how charming! I'm the one that was shot and you've come here to make it about <em>you</em>."</p><p>Jones brushes through the door then, encumbered with buckets of water drawn from the pump on the street corner. He's accompanied by his assistant, a comely young woman who doesn't care much for men, Lee has learned. <em>She barely tolerates </em>me, Jones had confessed at one point. They step around Laurens as though he isn't even there, and go about setting the water over the fire to heat. </p><p>Lee is calmed somewhat by Jones's arrival. His meticulous, industrious disposition alone has had something of a healing effect these past weeks. Lee's not quite so annoyed by Laurens's presence now, but he still wants nothing more than for him to leave immediately. Just seeing him again has invoked a new riot of pain in side, like he's feeling the bullet hit him all over again.</p><p>Laurens presses his lips together, seemingly caught between annoyance and regret. "Clearly it was a mistake coming here."</p><p>"Indeed. If it's not too much of an imposition, send word to Burr that I should like to see him," Lee snaps, then waves his hand in what he hopes Laurens interprets as a gesture of dismissal. </p><p>Laurens doesn't hesitate. Just gives an audible exhale and leaves. </p><p>"You could have handled that better," Jones says. The criticism feels especially dismissive and haughty with Jones's back still turned as he tends to the fire.</p><p>"You don't even know the nature of the conversation," Lee shoots back irritably.</p><p>"I could wager a guess. I <em>am</em> the one that counseled him when he originally came here, distraught at how he thought he'd killed you. Although it would seem you were partially aware of that conversation when it happened."</p><p>"If he was so distraught, perhaps he ought not have shot me in the first place."</p><p>"Would you have afforded him the same luxury?"</p><p>Lee doesn't answer. His mood is souring quickly - too much discomfort and physical activity for the day. He's having a hard time processing full consciousness again as it is, much less extended exertion. And Jones seems to have become acutely aware of all the ways to provoke Lee with surgical precision on top of everything else. </p><p>"I may have had my back turned for the whole affair, but I don't envision you aiming toward the sky," Jones continues. </p><p>"I don't envision requesting your advice."</p><p>The assistant makes some small sound of disapproval in the back of her throat, then stomps off to leave them alone.</p><p>Jones straightens and slowly pivots around to face him. There's that charge in the air that Lee recognizes well, that unnerving tranquility from Jones when he's feeling particularly smug. "Perhaps you're unacquainted with the concept, but it can be incredibly emotionally distressing to kill or even wound someone. ...Do you feel absolutely nothing whenever you inflict harm on a person?" Jones asks.</p><p>"I don't suppose I do," Lee says distantly. </p><p>He eases himself back, panting shallowly from the strain of sitting upright and closes his eyes again, prepared to fall asleep right in the chair. </p><p>"And yes, I heard that conversation between you two," Lee adds. "I told you as much, didn't I? When Laurens said the first time haunts you forever, I couldn't relate. All I could remember about the first time I killed a man was that it was about as invigorating as the first time I got my tarse up a woman's petticoats. Which was notable, but not monumentally life-changing."</p><p>The slamming of a drawer startles Lee back to alertness, followed by dozens of little vials arranged on the shelves of the medicinal cabinet vibrating together in a chaos of chimes. </p><p>"You truly are most vile," Jones says, reproachful and radiating unadulterated scorn. It actually has Lee shrinking in his seat, but Jones doesn't bother to gloat in Lee's withered response - he's a busy man, and he's already rushing to the door to greet the flustered old man bursting into the infirmary. </p><p>Lee recognizes the old man as Jones's father, but what really catches his attention is the familiarity of the wounded soldier accompanying him. It takes Lee a few moments to process the lame left arm, the disfigured jaw - clearly poorly healed injuries from possibly years prior. The soldier is half-conscious, not really responding as he's laid out on one of the beds, blood staining his uniform. </p><p>The younger Jones goes to cut the soldier's clothes away, then pauses, puzzled. He looks to his father. "Why is his chest already wrapped? He had a previous injury?"</p><p>Then it clicks how Lee knows this person.</p><p>"Fuck," he hisses, shooting to his feet with an urgency that is unwise in his current state. He clamps his hand over his side and shuffles over to them as quickly as possible, but Jones is already cutting the binding away. </p><p>"Fuck - Jones - wait," Lee warns. "Perhaps your father should leave you to this, don't - "</p><p>Too late. The binding falls away, and her breasts spring free - the left one is also severely disfigured. A two year old injury that never healed properly. </p><p>Jones takes an abrupt step back, takes about two seconds to process the situation, then shoots a grave look at his scandalized father. "I've got this handled. Perhaps you should go retrieve some supplies I have waiting at the apothecary." </p><p>"Augustin, this is - " the old man begins, but Jones clamps a hand around his father's shoulder and firmly ushers him out the door.</p><p>It dawns on Lee that he's never heard Jones's first name before. He'd never bothered to ask it. Something quickens in Lee's chest at this knowledge, as though it's rudely invasive of him to learn such intimate information under such awkward circumstances. Why something as benign as a man's first name has occurred to him as <em>intimate </em>is perplexing in itself, but he figures if Jones wished for him to know it, he'd have volunteered it long before now.</p><p>Jones wastes no time; he's already assessing the soldier's injury, locating the bayonet wound that caught her under the ribs. It looks rather unpleasant, but Lee has seen his fair share of wounds throughout his career, and it's a safe bet she'll survive it.</p><p>"You know this woman?" Jones asks, voice distant and flat, his attention absorbed in slowing the flow of blood.</p><p>Lee searches his memory, sagging where he stands until he's forced to sink onto the adjacent bed. "Margaret. Uh, Margaret...Corbin, if I remember correctly. Her husband was killed at Fort Washington a couple of years ago. She resumed operation of his cannon when he fell. Was a damned good shot, too, from what I hear. She'd watched him do it long enough."</p><p>"You were there?" Jones asks, gingerly assessing the woman's breast, her uncooperative left arm. He tilts her head to the side, inspects her jaw, frowning as he shakes his head. Even his medical expertise has its limits, and he can do nothing for these old injuries.</p><p>"In a sort. I was positioned directly across the Hudson to reinforce defenses from the British invasion. We never fought together, but I read the field reports afterwards. Listened to witness accounts from other soldiers. We'd met briefly before - she was a camp wife. Followed her husband around from station to station. Did our cooking and laundry. Drank me and my men under the table several times as well."</p><p>"These injuries were inflicted in that skirmish?"</p><p>Lee nods. "Kept firing until she fell. I had no idea she was still a - uh, a soldier."</p><p>It's an awkward choice of words - Lee knows she'd never be officially recognized as one. That she must have been disguising herself as a man for the past couple of years just to pose as a soldier because she likely had no other means to survive now with her husband gone and no prospects to remarry. </p><p>Jones finishes securing her bandages, then turns toward Lee, his expression unreadable. "You're saying this woman watched her husband die in front of her and her first instinct was to promptly resume battle in his stead?"</p><p>Lee shrugs. "That's the implication."</p><p>Jones turns back to the soldier and modestly covers her with a blanket. "Christ," he whispers. "Makes you wonder if we're the ones that should be doing the cooking and laundry."</p><p>Lee suppresses his laugh, not wanting to aggravate his wound any more than he already has. Ten years ago he'd have been offended by the concept, but now he's not so sure he disagrees. </p><p>There's no time to marvel in heroics; another soldier is being hauled out of a carriage stopped outside, this one considerably worse for wear. Jones hastens to help the accompanying soldiers lay him out on an empty bed, one leg of his breeches stained through with old blood and smelling especially putrid. Lee can smell it even from here; it's not good. </p><p>Petra and Ursula have become agitated with the excitement and scent of blood, and Lee sounds a staccato whistle through his teeth as he points sharply toward the floor next to him, prompting them to settle at his feet as they emit high-pitched whines. He absently rubs their ears, watching the flailing soldier that was just brought in. This will not end well for him. </p><p>Meanwhile, the woman across from him stirs. Instantly, she knows something is amiss. Her good arm flexes, hand flying to her chest as she attempts to sit upright. </p><p>"Marg - Madam Corbin," Lee says, which immediately gets her attention. She tenses, eyes sliding toward him suspiciously. </p><p>There's immediate recognition there; she's done his laundry, brought him food and water on multiple occasions before. Her eyes narrow.</p><p>"Surprised you didn't refer to me as Molly," she says, acerbic and distrustful.</p><p>It's a reasonable criticism - even Lee had some previously unnoticed revulsion at the dismissive, collective moniker the soldiers assigned to the camp wives. <em>Molly Pitcher</em> was more of a diminutive than it was a name, but he'll admit, even he'd never learned any of their real names until one of them got ripped apart after expertly manning a cannon. </p><p>He has no response. He can only gesture an apology. </p><p>"So what happened to you, then?" she asks, nodding toward the injury in his side where a small amount of blood has begun to blot through his shirt. It's not bad, his bandaging just needs changing. But he's pushed himself too much today.</p><p>"Doesn't matter," Lee answers. "What about you? Or him?" he says, tilting his chin in the direction of the new patient. "What's going on out there?"</p><p>"Raids on settlements just outside the city," she sighs. </p><p>"Those are still ongoing?" Lee asks, stunned. He doesn't know what aggravates him more; that he's so out of the loop now that he didn't know this, or that no progress has been made in mitigating the violent attacks that have been carried out on non-combatant settlers since <em>May</em>. </p><p>"My regiment was assigned to support the militia that the frontier settlers formed, but we've had little success. Civilians are being slaughtered. And my left arm's not so cooperative anymore, so I can't be as reckless or as quick as I'd like. When reloading is a challenge, you have to make every shot count. That's how I..." she shrugs with a wince, gesturing toward her midsection. </p><p>Lee's blood pressure spikes. Clearly Washington is not handling this well. And with Lee currently suspended from service, things will only get worse without his support. There's a lurch in his gut that's either despair or genuine nausea; he would have done so much of this differently if he'd been commander-in-chief. </p><p>"Well. I'm sure you'll be back in service soon enough. The injury looks superficial, and you're competent enough that you could actually make a difference."</p><p>Corbin's brows pinch. "Are you trying to insult me, you lunatic?! There's no chance of me ever being accepted back into service now that so many know my identity. I'm ruined."</p><p>This startles Lee into silence. He'd become so convicted of the fact that he's talking to a soldier, he forgot that as a woman who has just been publicly outed, she'd never have a chance of resuming the ruse. He feels that lurch of despair-nausea again. The internal revulsion of situational impotence. Now that she'll never be accepted back into the military, and will possibly even face criminal charges, she'll be destitute and ostracized. </p><p>Lee knows a thing or two about that.</p><p>He wishes he had words of reassurance, but can't think of anything that wouldn't sound like a trite platitude. No matter; he's spared the obligation of formulating an appropriate response by the pleading shouts of the new patient:</p><p>"Please - don't let him - <em>please </em>- you can't let him take it!"</p><p>Lee's heart plummets into his stomach, knowing what's about to happen. He sees the grim look Jones shoots one of the other soldiers, who stabilizes the injured man's head between his hands as Jones fits a thick strip of leather between the man's teeth. Lee avoids looking directly at the bone saw; he's witnessed this very situation on the battlefield a few times before. It never gets easier to stomach. </p><p>"Hold him down," Jones commands. He glances over his shoulder, addressing his assistant: "Fetch the iron out of the fire. And clean linens soaked in hot water, quickly."</p><p>The tourniquet is applied, tightened. </p><p>As always, Jones is practiced, quick, methodical. The broken wail that comes out of the injured soldier is unlike any sound that should ever come out of a human, but Jones seems to have done this plenty of times before. </p><p>It becomes immediately clear to Lee why the doctor has such impressive musculature. It takes him a mercifully brief nine seconds to saw the condemned leg clean off - no small feat that requires a significant amount of physical strength to achieve. Blood sprays across Jones's face, the front of his waistcoat - but his hand is steady, his expression as stoically removed as ever. </p><p>Lee swallows heavily as what little he's eaten today threatens to come back up. When he spots Burr through the window, he doesn't waste any time rushing out to greet him. It's biting cold outside, but a reprieve from the stifling trauma of the infirmary. The snow has picked up, but at least there's no wind to exacerbate the chill. Burr looks flustered and concerned, seemingly about to express the same apprehension Laurens did earlier about Lee's careless physical activity so soon after recovery.</p><p>Lee waves him off before he can say it. "Don't. I'm fine."</p><p>He eases himself onto a bench under the awning, and Burr reluctantly takes a seat beside him. </p><p>"The last time I saw you, it appeared you wouldn't..." Burr falls silent, too shaken to say it aloud. </p><p>"Yes, well, it would seem I've managed to botch dying, too. Add it to my long list of failures."</p><p>Lee had intended it as a joke, but it came out sounding cynical and bitter. Too bad - gallows humor used to be his forte.</p><p>Burr casts a concerned sidelong glance at him, and Lee just gestures dismissively. </p><p>"Washington - he's been especially contrite of late," Burr says after an awkward silence.</p><p>Lee only offers a noncommittal grunt. Normally he'd have a caustic reply to this, but right now, apathy is winning over.</p><p>"You realize the court-martial was merely a formality," Burr continues. "The charges brought against you were severe enough that had anyone taken them seriously, you'd have been - "</p><p>"Sentenced to death by firing squad, yes, I'm aware." </p><p>Lee's irritation is percolating. He can't remember why he wanted Burr here or what sort of conversation he'd anticipated, but he'd hoped it would at least ease his growing sense of tedium and isolation. The comfort of having someone familiar around. All it does is remind him of how much he's lost. How far he's fallen.</p><p>Burr's intentions are innocent though, and Lee knows this. Burr assumes he's telling Lee what he wants to hear, offering condolences and vindication. Unfortunately it just throws into sharp relief how much of a waste the past six months have been, squandered for appearances' sake.</p><p>"Everyone has expressed disapproval of losing such a decorated officer during wartime," Burr says. "Your suspension is only for a year, but a year is an awfully long time to sacrifice while the stakes are so high. It's just...important for you to know that you're still needed."</p><p>Lee is skeptical, but he doesn't show any indication of it. The idea of his suspension still being regarded as temporary catches him off guard, though. Being dismissed from service had been the single most painful thing he'd ever experienced, right up there with being shot, but now he's not so sure he can realistically envision military life on the other side of the sentencing. Does he even want to return? Should he?</p><p>"Do you ever think we've got it all wrong?" Lee asks, the words tumbling out of him, unbidden. </p><p>The nervous uncertainty in Lee's voice causes Burr to abruptly look to him, eyes shifting frantically as he inspects Lee's face. "Got what all wrong?"</p><p>Lee shakes his head. He considers not answering, but he suspects leaving the statement hanging cryptically on the air would raise a lot more concern. He takes a moment to compose his thoughts, to unpack what made him say it. </p><p>He thinks about the doctor - so calm, so strong, confident, <em>competent </em>- a bastion of stability and wisdom and comfort, who would be socially ostracized and possibly even lobotomized and imprisoned for his romantic inclinations. How a good doctor and a good man would forever be lost if the wrong people found out, simply for being a victim of nature. </p><p>He thinks about that bayonetted soldier in there, and so many other women just like her who might have made outstanding combatants and given the Continental Army an edge in numbers and strategy against the British, instead forced to live a life of domesticity and servitude to husbands many of them never wanted to marry in the first place. How that woman in there is currently laid up with injuries she acquired championing the nation's independence and will likely be left destitute and labeled a criminal as thanks for her services.</p><p>So much lost potential because of restrictive formalities in arbitrary rules of conduct.</p><p>"Everything," Lee says, so quietly he isn't sure Burr heard him. "All of it," he says, a little louder. "All these...rules we live by - why? Why are things the way they are - who decided? This...nation we're trying to build. It feels so fragile, doesn't it?"</p><p>"Lee...?" Burr's brow is pinched with deep concern, like he suspects Lee has become unbalanced. With no more battles to chase, Lee's had a lot of time to ruminate on things he'd never previously had the opportunity or perspective to question.</p><p>"What happens if we win this thing?" Lee muses. "What then? We establish some approximation of a government, but does anyone even know how to do that? Beyond some fucking gentleman's agreement that will likely be secured on a flimsy handshake and some signatures, do you think it's truly feasible?"</p><p>"Lee, where is this coming from?" </p><p>Lee smooths the snow flurries from his hair, staring thoughtfully at the snowdrifts, at the children playing among them, lobbing snowballs at one another. He feels a small twinge of anxiety at the uncertainty of what kind of world these children will inherit as a result of the contrivances of men like himself and Burr. It's a daunting burden.</p><p>"Just had a long time to think," Lee says. "I've fought under a lot of governments, you know. Served a multitude of leaders. No one's gotten it right so far. It's why I've spent my entire life running. It didn't occur to me why I did it until recently. I always thought I was running toward something, but I've really just been running <em>away</em>. From instability, from injustice, from poor leadership, from a...world bankrupt of opportunity. Nothing is permanent. Not loyalties, not moral principles, not laws. They're all determined by flawed, arrogant men with no sense of foresight or accountability. Self-appointed gatekeepers of progress, almost none of which earned that position on merit. ...You intend to enter politics when this is over, no?"</p><p>Burr says nothing; just stares at Lee with a mix of bewilderment and concern. </p><p>"For what it's worth, words can't express how much I appreciate your support after Monmouth. I know you and Washington have also had your disagreements. You're one of the only friends I have left in this world. But Burr - "</p><p>Lee hesitates, considers stopping while he's ahead. He's always been a little too harsh with his criticisms, a little too blunt. But he's already this deep in, and he can already feel the distance between him and Burr growing. </p><p>"This game you play," Lee says softly, "this thing you do where you performatively play to both sides and coast on likability and charm - it has no long term sustainability. If you endeavor for a future in law or politics - you can't hide your cards the way you do. You're going to have to develop an ethos and be honest about it. A government full of representatives who got there on affability alone rather than principled action to advance the nation will inevitably collapse. Trust me, I've seen it in all my years of traveling this world."</p><p>Burr huffs, shaking his head in offended disbelief. "You sound like Hamilton," he says bitterly.</p><p>Lee inclines his head in curiosity. "Truly? The kid's a mouthy nuisance and a thorn in my side, but he'd be right on that one, if he's expressed the same sentiment. You know, I hear people frequently ask of him how he writes like he's running out of time - maybe it's because we are. Maybe we all are. I can't help the notion that the clock is ticking on this nation becoming precisely what we've fought so hard to escape because we were so unprepared to do this on our own." </p><p>"I should be going," Burr says, and begins to rise from his seat.</p><p>Lee grabs him by the forearm, squeezes just hard enough to keep his attention. "Wait. Listen to me. You don't owe me anything - not after everything you've already done for me and especially not after I've clearly alienated you beyond return. But if you - if you truly believe in this nation and its potential, I'd ask just one last favor of you."</p><p>Burr hesitates, but stills. He avoids looking at Lee, just stares straight ahead. "I'm listening."</p><p>Lee sighs, already knowing it's a long shot. "There's...a soldier in there," he says, jerking his head toward the infirmary. "Unfortunately she happens to be a woman. She'll never be allowed to return to service, and she has no prospects domestically. I've hardly enough leverage to influence anything anymore, but you're already a talented litigator. If you could somehow convince Congress to provide her a soldier's pension - it's the least that can be done for her services. Margaret Corbin. The name should at least be familiar to Washington. And your reputation may improve if you succeed."</p><p>Burr exhales sharply, shooting a disdainful look toward Lee before his eyes dart away again. He can't even make eye contact, he's so affronted. "You really have gone mad during your convalescence," he mutters.</p><p>"Perhaps I have. But if you genuinely think that <em>talking less and smiling more</em> will advance your political career, by all means, keep doing that instead."</p><p>It was supposed to be an amicable tease, but it came out too sharp, too mocking, and Lee immediately regrets it. The wedge between him and Burr will likely be irreparable at this point. </p><p>Burr rises to his feet. "Fine. I'll see what I can do."</p><p>Lee watches him hastily disappear into his waiting carriage, that despair-nausea in the hollow of his ribs yawning into the numb throb of pure grief. He's freezing - he carelessly came out here without a coat, and now his clothes are damp from the snow. He shivers, manages a labored struggle to his feet, and reluctantly goes back inside.</p><p>Corbin and the amputee are both unconscious. Jones and his assistant are nowhere to be seen, and Petra and Ursula are still waiting patiently where Lee had left them, tails picking up an excited drumbeat against the floor at his reappearance. </p><p>He ponders the chaos of the day, the commotion of all the visitors. Simply being in constant pain is overwhelmingly exhausting, so easily saps one's energy. Just being able to stay awake long enough to see daylight feels like a charity now. He's only just started spending entire days in full consciousness again, and wonders at how busy the infirmary must have always been while he was under. </p><p>Previously he'd only ever been aware of Jones's presence, but surely there had been other patients, other visitors. Jones seemingly runs the place by himself - it's a relatively small infirmary in comparison to the sprawling, multiple-wing hospitals coming to the cities - but his father and assistant must surely oversee things in shifts. The man has to sleep occasionally, even if it seems like he rarely allows himself the luxury. </p><p>This is a curious revelation; that Jones and the little quirks of his proximity were all that Lee had been attuned to during his fleeting bouts of awareness. </p><p>He shivers again, the abrupt movement causing his side to ache. He considers drying out in front of the fire, but opts on a change of clothes entirely. He eases out of his dampened shirt as he heads back to the antechamber for washing and where a few of his personal effects have been kindly stowed away. Hopefully, the basin has been refreshed with heated water by now.</p><p>He momentarily glimpses the familiar silhouette through the privacy screen right as he comes upon it, the doctor's bloodied clothes draped over it, and rounds the corner just a little too late - Jones is naked from the waist up, pouring a steaming ewer of water into the basin. </p><p>Lee freezes, newly stricken by the scars on Jones's back. He'd almost forgotten all about that, had tucked that damning incident away from conscious thought because he hadn't been forced to think about it. But now, seeing them illuminated in the beams of sunlight angling through the slats of the shuttered windows rather than the dancing shadows of a dim fire, the accusation and guilt hits him fresh. </p><p>The understanding of what Jones had said to him earlier strikes him as violently as the crack of the whip that inflicted those scars. Years worth of suppressed guilt and regret overwhelms him, the memory vivid and merciless. He can too easily recall the sound the whip made on Jones's back, the scream that came out of him. Lee's gut twists, his breath punched out of him so that he's gasping for air. </p><p>The room spins, he's dizzy and nauseous. If he doesn't pull himself together quickly, he'll end up collapsing onto the floor. </p><p>He reels himself in, forces his breathing under control. When his vision clears, he's distinctly aware of Jones watching him steadily in the shaving mirror on the washstand, his own movements having stilled. He's white-knuckling the sponge, hand poised over the basin, waiting for Lee to come back to himself. </p><p>Lee isn't sure what compels him to do it. It's like that entity of instinct that commands him in battle has returned to him here and now for some reason, and he's moving without thinking, piloted by some unseen force outside his control. He steps forward and delicately takes the sponge from Jones's hand. Submerges it in the basin, squeezes it out, lathers it with soap. </p><p>The moment he presses the sponge to Jones's back, Jones responds quick and nimble, his movements so fluid and abrupt that Lee doesn't fully process what's happening until he finds himself spun around and forced to his knees, a strong cord of leather enclosing his throat. </p><p>Three frantic heartbeats later, he realizes it's his own horsewhip. It must have been delivered by Burr and stashed back here along with his other belongings after his horse had been kindly stabled for him just after the duel. </p><p>Everything falls into place in perfect clarity even as his brain is deprived of oxygen, the whip pulled tight around his neck. It would be as fitting of an end for him as it is poetic; he <em>did </em>end another man's life exactly like this, once. </p><p>"What gives you the right?" Jones growls. "Do you intend to mock me?"</p><p>"On God's honor, I do not," Lee rasps. It's all he can manage on what limited air is still in his lungs.</p><p>"That's rich, coming from a man who has no god," Jones hisses. </p><p>Lee has no answer. He doesn't fight it. His arms are limp at his sides, he could at least attempt a struggle, but he just lets it happen. </p><p>The whip loosens around his throat and Jones towers behind him. A second later, Lee feels the the leather licking up his back, and his breath hitches in the middle of a desperate gasp for air. He clenches his teeth. </p><p>"What would you do, if I returned the favor all these years later?" Jones asks.</p><p>Lee is trembling, heart slamming against his ribs, throat closing with panic. It's causing his side to throb mercilessly, but he knows he's in for a wealth of much worse. He closes his eyes. Clenches his fists and rests them on top of his thighs. A posture of repentant defeat. </p><p>He deserves this.</p><p>He waits. Jones is hesitating, or perhaps drawing out the torture, dragging the tail of the whip up Lee's spine like he's savoring the anticipation of making bloody artwork out of the canvas of his back. </p><p>"You'd just take it...wouldn't you?" Jones muses. He sounds as stunned as he is pleased with himself.</p><p>Lee doesn't answer. Just tries to school his breathing, jaw tight, body braced for impact. His fists are still visibly motionless atop his thighs, clenched so hard that his fingernails pinch little crescents into his palms.</p><p>But then the whip is drawn away. Lee is hauled up by his elbow and gently guided back around to face Jones. </p><p>Jones avoids eye contact, head tilted downward as he makes a display of inspecting Lee's bandaging. The little blossom of blood has grown some, but it's still superficial. </p><p>"You're seeping," he says, and maybe Lee is imagining it, but his reserved tone sounds almost like an apology.</p><p>"It's fine," Lee gasps, still trying to catch his breath. His throat is still tight with panic, his heart so frantic he's sure Jones can see it pounding through his chest. "Here - " Lee says, stooping down to collect the dropped sponge before Jones can fuss over his wound. He rinses and lathers it again, then lightly nudges Jones's shoulder. "Turn around."</p><p>Reluctantly, Jones does so. He keeps his eyes steadily locked on Lee in the mirror, suspicious but curious. He stiffens at the sponge's first touch against his back, hands coming up to brace himself against the washstand, but he keeps still and allows Lee to continue. </p><p>Lee is trembling so hard, it's difficult for him to hold the sponge steady, and he doesn't even realize he's silently crying until he feels the heat of a tear slide down his cheek. He glances nervously to the mirror, and Jones's expression in the reflection is one of cautious shock. Lee quickly averts his eyes downward, just takes his time to fully absorb the damage done to Jones's back. He softly drags the sponge across Jones's shoulder blades, traces the arc of his spine to the small of his back. </p><p>"Does it still hurt terribly?" Lee asks, voice muted and punctuated with sorrow. </p><p>Jones shakes his head. "Not so much. They get tight sometimes, so I rub oil into them. It helps."</p><p>"Would you like me to assist you with that?" </p><p><em>Would you allow me to do that for you</em>, more like.</p><p>"...Very well, then," Jones concedes.</p><p>Lee feels a profound thrill at this, that Jones is allowing this intimacy. He's not about to waste this opportunity to indulge his most forbidden impulses concerning this man. Just getting to touch him like this, vulnerable with his back turned, has some sweet little ache lifting in the center of his ribs. He idly bumps his thumb over Jones's spine as he lathers and rinses his back, easily able to count each jut of bone. Jones's waist is impossibly narrow despite the bulk of muscle. Enough to cause concern. </p><p>"Are you eating enough?" Lee asks. </p><p>"I eat just fine," Jones says with a subtle roll of his eyes. </p><p>Lee falls silent, gradually getting bolder on his work with the sponge, testing Jones's boundaries. He inches it around his waist, up his side, backs off when Jones shrinks away as the sponge caresses over his ribs. Lee glances in the mirror, sees the blood smears over his taut stomach, staining his forearms. Lee wants desperately to help him with that, too, but he doesn't need to be told he isn't allowed. When he's finished with Jones's back, Lee trades him the sponge for the vial of oil. </p><p>Jones begins to clean the blood away, stealing occasional glances in the mirror as Lee towels off his back and then methodically goes to work on each scar. There's a balmy, candied scent to the oil, like almonds and hazelnut. It becomes more fragrant as it's warmed by the heat of Jones's skin, commingling with his natural scent so enticingly that it gets Lee's mouth feeling wet. The scent suits Jones perfectly - bold and masculine, but gentle and sophisticated.</p><p>Briefly - <em>wickedly</em> - Lee's mind wanders to what <em>other </em>activities might be employed with this oil, but quickly backs out of the notion. </p><p>His train of thought must be evident in his face, because Jones is staring at him in the mirror again, eyebrows raised slightly. Lee schools his face into something neutral, mouth pressed into a straight line. He tenderly drags his fingertips along each scar one by one, takes his time rubbing the oil in, acquainting himself with the contours of the raised flesh. Forcing himself to take accountability for each lashing. </p><p>"You should have done it," Lee whispers. </p><p>Jones stills, places the sponge back in the basin, and braces his hands against the washstand again. Lee can feel those sober eyes on him in the mirror, but dares not look up. Just continues tracing those nightmarish scars. He's so tempted to do something ridiculous and foolish, like leaning in to kiss them. His mouth is so close to the stripe that licks up over Jones's shoulder, if he were to sway forward just a little and brush his lips there, it might be passed off as an accident. But Lee restrains himself. He's pushed his luck far enough already.</p><p>"Why do you say that?" Jones asks.</p><p>"Because - maybe I needed to know how it felt. To fully experience it myself so that I might truly be absolved of what I did. Uh, I struggle with things like empathy, as I'm sure you're aware."</p><p>"Mm. No doubt. But I'm busy enough without whip lacerations added to my already long list of obligations. And you're rather difficult when you're feverish, unconscious or no." </p><p>Lee nods curtly. There's something notable about the knowledge that as soon as Jones considered grievously injuring him, he was just as inclined to heal him immediately thereafter. It's as disturbing as it is exhilarating, the morbid romanticism of it. Lee doesn't know how to feel about this, so he remains silent.</p><p>Jones makes a small, resigned sound of defeat. "And also like any sane human, I have a strong aversion to inflicting serious harm on a person. Admittedly, I wouldn't have been able to stomach it."</p><p>"Oh? I find that hard to believe, as I just witnessed you sawing a man's leg off with all the candor of a man cutting into his mutton." </p><p>"That's...different. When I'm forced to do something particularly invasive or traumatic to treat a patient, I...go somewhere else. In my head. Or become two different people, if you will. I isolate myself, tuck the vulnerable parts of me away and operate on instinct. Allow my muscle memory to guide me, if that makes any sense. There's a certain level of detachment required to do this job."</p><p>Lee can relate. He can't help his smile, can feel the wistful nostalgia deepening the lines framing his mouth. "It makes perfect sense, actually."</p><p>"It never gets easier, for what it's worth," Jones admits. "It's dreadful every time, but it's an inevitability in this line of work."</p><p>Lee falls into a reserved silence, some inkling of a thought he didn't want to invoke tickling the back of his mind. He feels queasy all of a sudden, and he sets the vial of oil back on the washstand as though it might detonate, his hands coming to rest atop Jones's shoulders. Lee stares blankly down at his shoulder blades, seeing nothing as he forces himself to confront a grim possibility of years past.</p><p>Lee's voice is so low and timid when he speaks again, it's barely audible. "Might that have been me? That day you dug the bullet out of my leg. Would that have happened to me had you not saved it?"</p><p>Jones gives an almost imperceptible nod. </p><p>Lee swallows, his hands unconsciously tightening on Jones's shoulders, possibly seeking comfort in their unyielding firmness. Jones lets him for a moment, then turns out of Lee's grip and leans back against the washstand, staring into Lee's face until his eyes refocus. </p><p>"And I whipped you for it," Lee whispers. He can feel the tears glistening in his eyes, but can see Jones's frown even through the blur. </p><p>"Yes. I lectured you for as much already, did I not? Nevertheless, it's unproductive to wallow in regret and might-have-beens," Jones says. "What's done is done."</p><p>"I know. But knowing that doesn't make it easier." </p><p>Something in the air has changed between them, something divinely profound, and Lee is inspecting Jones's face, trying to read his expression, admiring the perfectly even shadow of three-day-old stubble there. He looks so ruggedly handsome like this, the over-precise angles of his face distinctly pronounced in this light, hair artfully tousled as always. </p><p>Unthinking, Lee leans forward and presses a kiss to the corner of Jones's mouth. Jones goes tense, keeps his eyes open, but surprisingly permits it. </p><p>It's the first time Lee has ever kissed a man - it's strange, but in that invigorating, new experience kind of way, and also a little abrasive because Jones hasn't had a shave in a while. But it's nice, Lee decides - Jones is so warm and steady and calm. His lips are slightly parted in modest shock and Lee takes advantage of it, latches his mouth softly onto Jones's bottom lip. It's cruelly brief - Jones is pushing him away already.</p><p>"Perhaps don't get carried away," Jones says. "Whatever it is you think you're feeling right now, it's not authentic."</p><p>Lee takes a step back, feeling as though he's been stabbed in the chest. "How do you presume to know what I feel?"</p><p>At least Jones looks genuinely regretful and apologetic. Whether it's from feeling awful about rejecting a man who isn't accustomed to rejection or because he was enjoying it and wanted it to continue is up for debate. </p><p>"Do you know what imprinting is, Lee?"</p><p>Lee takes another step back. The blows just keep coming. He breeds and trains dogs, he knows what it is.</p><p>"Of course I - You - <em>you think that's what this is</em>?" He hates the way his voice goes up at the end, hates how meek it makes him sound.</p><p>"Well, isn't it?"</p><p>Lee's first instinct is to deny it, to be skeptical, but now he's not so sure. <em>Is it</em>? </p><p>Does it even matter?</p><p>"That's not - that's not how that works," Lee says, but it's a feeble response.</p><p>"No matter. If you don't mind, I'd prefer to finish up here - privately." He extends the privacy screen, effectively shutting Lee out.</p><p>That doesn't help matters; all it does is make Lee realize in an instant how badly he longs to see the more private parts of Jones. Dejected, he returns to the main hall of the infirmary and sits down on a bed close to the fire, adjusting himself in his breeches as they've suddenly become a little too constricting. In his distraction with Jones, he'd neglected to fulfill his original objective in procuring another shirt, but the fire is warm and Jones will need to inspect his wound soon, anyway.</p><p>When Jones reappears, he's fully dressed and impeccably composed. Lee's still somewhat dazed and doesn't immediately acknowledge his presence until he feels the warmth of Jones's hand encircling his wrist and firmly tugs his hand away from his side, which Lee hasn't noticed he's been rubbing until just now.</p><p>"Stop. Fidgeting."</p><p>Lee guiltily presses his palm against the mattress, curling inward to dull the throb. </p><p>"Come on then, lie back, let's have a look." </p><p>Lee silently complies, that familiar little jolt sparking in him at the excitement this has come to inspire. He's come to like this a little too much, likes having Jones take care of him. It's humiliating just to acknowledge as much in his head, but Lee is a dedicated hedonist; pleasure supersedes shame every time.</p><p>Jones pulls a chair up to his bedside, cuts the bandages away, softly presses his thumbs around the mending wound. It's a welcome little discomfort, this; just shy of painful, but enough to focus Lee's attention, to notice how practiced Jones is in applying a touch so delicate, it feels obscenely intimate.</p><p>"It's healing nicely. The worst part's over. There's no threat of infection anymore - " he pauses to fix Lee with a scolding glare, " - provided you let it be and stop poking at it."</p><p>"Easier said than done. Still hurts."</p><p>"Try. I'm not going to keep feeding you laudanum. You'll develop a dependency on it."</p><p>He presses a clean, damp cloth to the wound and dabs at it to clear the dried blood away. A moment later, he's nudging at Lee's hip, the habitual silent request for him to turn onto his side. </p><p>"I'm surprised Petra and Ursula didn't try to attack you when you were - well, when you were strangling me," Lee says, the notion only just occurring to him when they amble over and flop down at his bedside.</p><p>The huff of a half-laugh comes from behind him. </p><p>"Possibly because I've been feeding them and taking them out while you've been recovering. They've grown to trust me."</p><p>"Oh. ...Thank you."</p><p>It's trite and ineloquent, but it's the only response Lee can come up with. He's not sure if it feels more sentimental or like a betrayal that his dogs and this tentative rival have developed something of a bond without him.</p><p>Jones eases Lee onto his back, secures him with fresh bandages. </p><p class="">"It's curious - I actually killed a man in exactly that same way," Lee confesses.</p><p>There's a lengthy pause. Jones has gone eerily still again, jaw set and eyes vacant as though he's considering something. Then:</p><p>"I know."</p><p>Lee lifts his head from the pillow, startled. "How could you possibly know that?"</p><p>Another pause. Jones's eyes are hollow, his face grim. Like he already regrets what he's about to confess.</p><p>"Because he told me."</p><p>Lee's skin goes cold, the slimy serpent of unease slowly uncoiling in the pit of his stomach. </p><p>"The colonel?" he whispers.</p><p>Jones nods stiffly. </p><p class="">His breath has been punched out of him again. He doesn't know what's more shocking; that Jones really can perceive the departed to some degree, or that he suddenly trusts Lee enough to admit this when previously he so smoothly denied it.</p><p>"So you really can...<em>see</em> things. He's not been...hovering around after me, has he?"</p><p>Jones gives a subtle shake of his head. "Not quite. I don't know how it works, really. I've never quite been able to sort it out, or put it into words that would do it any justice. I don't think I'm supposed to. It's not something that the living should be able to conceptualize. All I've been able to understand is that sometimes they're attached to a place, sometimes a person. But it's always an unstable connection. He seems to be distantly attached to you, because you did kill him, after all. I can always <em>feel</em> him, a little. I've only seen him just the once, though. Just long enough to tell me what you did."</p><p>Lee lets this settle in, takes time to fully appreciate this new information. His heart is pounding violently again, too many emotions competing with each other for him to find a state of calm. A doctor that can see and hear the dead must be profoundly miserable.</p><p>"This is an infirmary," Lee says. "It must be purgatory for you."</p><p>Strangely, Jones laughs, genuine and mirthful. "Quite literally so, yes." </p><p>"Are there that many...attached to me, specifically?" Lee asks, horrified, frantically attempting a rough tally of how many people he's killed over the years. </p><p>An artery flickers briefly in Jones's neck - not out of tension, but rather his polite suppression of another laugh. He gives a small shrug. "There's a lot of...static around you, but none of it is distinct. To be fair, the colonel might have been attached to the whip more than <em>you</em>. Perhaps that's why he spoke to me. Because he and I...share that, as it were."</p><p>Lee thinks he's going to be sick. It's a revolting concept, and he's torn between telling Jones to leave him in solitude so he can come to terms with this in privacy, or satisfying his curiosity about this new information that Jones has likely not confided to a single other soul. </p><p>"I originally wanted to be a soldier," Jones says, sensing Lee's curiosity. "Obviously that would not have worked out. So many inevitable deaths around me, <em>caused </em>by me - I'd be perpetually haunted. They tend to...sense when you can hear them, even when you ignore them, so they latch onto the only living person who might listen. So I took the more practical route, figured the best I could do to protect myself was prevent as many deaths as I could. That's about all there is to know about why I chose this profession."</p><p>"Oh? Not because of your father?"</p><p>Jones shifts his gaze to the floor. "Ah. Well. He's my adoptive father, truth be told. My mother died giving birth and John was a distant friend of my real father's. He took me in when he learned of my aspirations. I owe my thanks to him for granting me the opportunity to make them a reality."</p><p>"What became of your real father?"</p><p>Jones's eyes cut back to Lee's face, and there's that shuttered look to them that tells Lee he's tread into forbidden territory again. The implication is obvious - Lee shouldn't pry further. That Jones would confess <em>this </em>so readily as well is almost too much for Lee to take in one sitting. </p><p>"Ah. I see." Lee dares not continue this line of questioning, he knows it's unwise and that he has no right to ask, he hasn't earned that privilege. But Lee is selfish. "Did he hurt you? Is that why you killed him?"</p><p>"Alright," Jones says reproachfully, a polite note of finality in his non-answer.</p><p>He's on the verge of leaving, but Lee's decided he really doesn't want to be alone with as much as he's learned today. It's too unsettling. </p><p>"Augustin - "</p><p>Jones freezes, shooting him another scolding glare. "Jones is just fine to you," he says sternly.</p><p>"I...of course." Lee feels foolish and lost now, chastised and uncharacteristically discouraged. "Could you always see them?" he asks, urgently blurting out the first question that comes to mind in an attempt to recover.</p><p>Jones briefly ponders this. "<em>Sense </em>them - yes. Ever since I can remember. But they were always indistinct shadows at first, like when you see motion in your periphery, but you turn to look and there's nothing there. And I could hear them, like murmurs, or buzzing, occasionally coherent messages would come through. Sometimes I would just come to know things without any rational reason to know them. Growing up, a lot of the adults around me found it immensely disturbing. As a child, I'd...tried to talk to people about it, thinking it was normal, that everyone was like this, but that...quickly became something I learned I should speak of to no one if I wanted to avoid landing myself in an insane asylum. But I couldn't consistently see them or understand them with full clarity until you - "</p><p>Jones abruptly cuts himself short, eyes sheepishly lingering on Lee's before drifting focus into mid-space. "Until I came close to death myself," he amends. </p><p>Lee's field of vision narrows, grows dim. There's rushing in his ears, familiar to the kind that precedes fainting. He doesn't quite lose consciousness, but rather falls into a listless dissociative state, all of his senses shutting down, protecting himself from having to fully process the dark reality of what his actions heralded.  </p><p>Catatonic with the overwhelming chorus of panic, grief, regret, impotence, self-loathing - when he comes back to himself, the windows of the infirmary are dark and he's alone save for the other two unconscious patients, though he has no recollection of the sun setting, the passage of time, or Jones's departure. He senses that he never quite lost consciousness, that his eyes have been open, unseeing this entire time. </p><p>The only sensations he's aware of are terror and chaos. A detachment from himself. And even though there are two other humans in his immediate vicinity, along with his dogs glumly lying on the floor at his bedside, he's never felt more isolated. </p><p>What gradually drags him out of it is a subtle disturbance in the otherwise dead silence of the night. Just over the labored breathing of the other patients, Lee can hear it, his soldier's hearing still attuned to anything that doesn't belong. A continuous scratching, accompanied by a familiar voice crying out from somewhere above him.</p><p>Lee recognizes that scream, even when it's choked and muted.</p><p>He doesn't hesitate; he springs to his feet, not feeling the piercing protest from his side, half-tripping, half-stumbling up the darkened stairs. </p><p>He's never been up here before. Never had any reason to be. Never quite felt he had permission, besides. It's Jones's private refuge, a place to which he can retreat when he needs to put space between him and the chaos and trauma of his profession. </p><p>Lee feels distinctly intrusive just taking the initiative, doing this without ever asking if it was okay, likely as off-limits as using the doctor's first name. He clumsily rams his toes on every steep step as though the stairwell is rebuking him simply for this unsanctioned impulse. </p><p>That portly calico cat is at the top landing, standing on her chubby hind legs as she rhythmically paws at the closed door in an obnoxious persistence to be let in. That would account for the eerie scratching. </p><p>When Lee bursts into Jones's chambers, he finds him sitting upright on the side of his bed, hanging his head in his hands as though he'd just been roused rather violently and is trying to get his breathing to return to normal and reclaim peace.</p><p>The cat darts inside and leaps onto the bed, and begins rubbing herself against Jones's arm, purring so loudly that Lee can hear it from where he stands in the doorway.</p><p>Lee isn't quite sure what he expected upon coming up here. Certainly not some malicious assailant from which Jones needed to be rescued, although upon closer examination, he supposes that's precisely what he'd anticipated. </p><p>Jones looks up then, and Lee is surprised to see his expression settle into one of mild annoyance. </p><p>"Lee, what ever possessed you to assume such an intrusion was necessary?"</p><p>This hurts - enough that it inspires some small flare of annoyance in Lee as well. "You screamed," he says flatly. The '<em>obviously'</em> is so strongly implied in his tone that he might as well have said it aloud.</p><p>Then Lee understands - the only other thing that might elicit a scream like that would be monstrous nightmares. Lee would know something about that. He's had a lifetime of them, himself.</p><p>His heart sinks. </p><p>He shuffles where he stands, but forces himself not to look away. It's another way of holding himself accountable; studying Jones's reproachful face, making eye contact. </p><p>"Were you. Dreaming about when I...?" Lee falls short, gesturing helplessly. He can't say it aloud. Not now.</p><p>Jones looks stunned for a moment, then his face softens into what looks like consolation. "No," he mumbles, finally acknowledging the cat with a quick scratch behind her ears. </p><p>He offers nothing more, and Lee can't tell if he just doesn't feel like talking about it or if he's lying to spare Lee's feelings. That seems unlikely, though he did censor himself earlier for precisely that reason.</p><p>Lee feels rather absurd now, nothing left to do or say. Simply leaving with his tail between his legs is the only option left, but it's far too defeatist and emasculating. But he can't exactly stay here and pry, especially now that he's noticing Jones's particular state of undress, that he's only in his linen underdrawers. </p><p>It's inappropriate, but Lee openly stares anyway, watches the shadows of firelight dance over the man's legs. Even this feels strikingly intimate; he's never seen Jones's bare legs before. Of course they'd be just as impressively sculpted as the rest of him. There's something erotic about the bulge of thigh barely contained in the legs of his linens, the healthy swell of overly-defined calves, the light dusting of hair glowing auburn in the firelight - which immediately has Lee's mind wandering to what certain other concealed patches of hair might look like on him. </p><p>"Your staring is immensely uncouth," Jones chides. </p><p>Lee glances away.</p><p>Jones sighs, absently stroking the insistent cat at his side as he stares into the fire. "It just gets...noisy, sometimes, is all," he offers. </p><p>The sinister implication has Lee's blood running cold. His eyes dart around the room, even though there's nothing to see other than Jones's furnishings. A modest fireplace - smaller than the one downstairs. Another washstand and basin. A bookshelf laden with medical journals and literary classics. A fold-out desk that's currently shut tight. A night table with a single lit candle. A chest of drawers. </p><p>The rising moon is filtering through the latticed window, and it adds an ethereal coloring to the room, combined with the flicker of firelight. Lee may not be able to sense whatever presences might be wandering about, but it has his spine crawling anyway. </p><p>"That, and I did saw a man's leg off today," Jones adds. "As I said, it never gets easier. Just having another restless night is all."</p><p>Lee risks taking a step forward. "This happens often? This is a frequent source of distress for you?"</p><p>Jones waves his hand as though to say <em>Nothing to be done about it</em>. </p><p>An impudent idea that's been assembling in Lee's head since just after he burst into the room is challenging his restraint, he knows it's silly and inappropriate and unlikely, but he's voicing it before he allows himself the opportunity to overthink it --</p><p>"Would it help if I stayed with you through the night?"</p><p>Jones abruptly looks up, breaking from an extended daze from having stared too long at the fire. He doesn't look <em>affronted</em>, not quite; more like he's questioning Lee's sanity. Lee has been getting that look a lot lately. </p><p>He stands his ground. His face is sober, locking eyes with Jones as he waits for an answer. </p><p>"You're serious," Jones says, incredulous. "Have you gone mad?"</p><p>Lee lifts a shoulder dismissively, then crosses his arms over his chest and leans against the door frame. "That seems to be the consensus of late. Though some might argue I always was." </p><p>"Fuck," Jones says on an exhale, dropping his head again, intensely pondering the floor. He mutters something that's almost inaudible, but it sounds suspiciously like <em>-can't believe I'm considering this</em>. </p><p>Lee ducks his head, trying to catch Jones's eye. "Is that a yes?" </p><p>This time he doesn't wait for an answer. Just closes the door behind him and cautiously crosses the room. When he comes to stand at the side of the bed opposite Jones, Jones remains sitting in place, shoulders rigid, back to Lee, those morbid scars on full display. Like he's struggling to come to terms with what he wants right now, summoning up the courage to either assent or send Lee away. </p><p>Lee toes off his boots. Unfastens his breeches with exaggerated fanfare, just to give Jones the courtesy of hearing it and enough time to object if this violates any boundaries. </p><p>Wordlessly, Jones eases back into bed and turns onto his side, back still facing Lee. </p><p>It's the closest to an invitation he thinks he's going to get, so Lee slips down to his own underdrawers and slides under the covers behind Jones, maintaining a couple inches of distance between them as he stares at the latticework of scars over the marbling of muscle. </p><p>Jones is breathing erratically, either out of nerves or awkwardness. Lee just watches the uneven rise and fall of his shoulder until it finally evens out and the muscles of his back relax. Just as Jones's breathing gets slow and deep, he stiffens and jerks awake with a shiver, like that reflexive overcorrection in sleep when one is dreaming of falling. </p><p>Instinctively, Lee reaches out and slides his hand over Jones's rib cage, fitting his fingers into the spaces between his ribs. Jones curiously doesn't pull away or even flinch at the touch. Testing boundaries, Lee closes the distance between them and secures himself to Jones's back, curling an arm around his middle. </p><p>"Would probably help if you kept warm," Lee says. </p><p>"Such a feeble excuse," is Jones's mumbled reply, but it's said with a note of fondness, like he's stifling a smile. </p><p><em>Oh</em>, and it's so uniquely exhilarating. Being this close to Jones - with his explicit consent, no less - causes a youthful giddiness to stir in him. It's that specific brand of excitement and unpredictability that comes with new attraction, the satisfaction of finally getting to sift his nose through Jones's hair and nuzzle at his neck, greedy for his scent. Lee doesn't even try to be subtle about it this time, just inhales that scent like a drowning man gasping for air. It's foolishly bold, shameless, but he selfishly indulges his impulses, and risks pressing a lingering kiss to the back of Jones's neck. </p><p>"You could at least attempt to show <em>some </em>restraint," Jones says. </p><p>"What? You smell good," Lee says innocently, though he's been in this particular situation plenty of times with women to know how quickly things can escalate this way. What starts out as benign spooning can rapidly turn into frenzied rutting and impaired judgment. And Lee knows Jones isn't exactly an inexperienced, blushing virgin himself. If there were any genuine enthusiasm behind the reproach, he wouldn't have let Lee get this close in the first place. </p><p>He considers Jones must be thinking the same thing when he tenses slightly and turns his head back a little to regard Lee peripherally, but then he asks -</p><p>"Lee, did you - did you really storm up here just because I screamed?"</p><p>"<em>Mmf</em>," he mumbles into Jones's hair. He can feel himself blushing as it becomes clear how irrational his initial reaction was. It's a little sobering when he was already starting to lose his head to the burgeoning arousal of skin-on-skin contact. It's akin to being splashed with cold water. "I suppose I did," Lee admits.</p><p>"And what exactly did you plan to do when you got up here?"</p><p>"Didn't think about it. Rescue you, apparently. Stop laughing, I know it's ridiculous."</p><p>Lee nips at Jones's ear and gives his nipple a fleeting, teasing little pinch, then affectionately drags his thumb back and forth over the hollow beneath his rib cage, evoking the slightest of squirms out of him. Interesting - so Jones is a little ticklish. </p><p>"I really don't think you know how long I've wanted to do this," Lee says.</p><p>"What, land yourself in my bed?"</p><p><em>Well, that too</em>, <em>now that you mention it</em>, Lee thinks. "How long I've wanted to...hold you."</p><p>It sounds so sickeningly maudlin said aloud, even if it's the truth.</p><p>Lee tries again: "After that first time I put my arms around you, I've been considering all the ways I might get you back in them."</p><p>Christ. That was worse.</p><p>He winces against Jones's neck, whose chest is still jumping with silent laughter in Lee's grip. Lee isn't sure if that's a good or bad thing. </p><p>"Don't get saccharine, Lee. It doesn't suit you."</p><p>Lee offers a laugh of his own and risks another lingering kiss to Jones's neck. That Jones allows it helps his confidence.</p><p>"I'm not typically so bad at this," Lee admits. "It's...been a while since I've been intimate with anyone."</p><p>"That much is obvious."</p><p>Lee slides his hand down to Jones's hip and gives it a firm squeeze. Not enough to hurt, just to give him a playful rebuke. Jones offers another squirm when Lee's fingers press into the inner valley of his hip bone and Lee makes a mental note of this. He intends to find every one of these tender little spots on Jones's body, in time. He hooks his arm back around Jones, tugs him closer. His lips find the space behind his ear and brush a lazy almost-kiss there, and Jones exhales heavily in a wordless sound of approval.</p><p>"I really don't think you could ever understand," Lee says. "How much I came to rely on you."</p><p>Jones shifts, lifting his head from the pillow again to better hear Lee's muted voice over the sound of the fire. The movement inadvertently causes Lee's lips to brush against the space below his ear again, and the little shiver Jones gives at the touch is almost enough to cause Lee to lose his head entirely. Having such a responsive bedmate is too much. Too rewarding. Especially when Jones has been so poised and passionless up until now, always so buttoned-up and composed that he was beginning to give the impression that the act of sex and other sloppy, carnal human indulgences were beneath him. </p><p>It feels too good, being allowed this much with him. So good that it has Lee voicing his most vulnerable secrets like a drunk man announcing his most sinful confessions to the entire tavern.</p><p>"When I was down there in the dark, unable to wake up, just...floating in some half state of existence - "</p><p>Lee pauses, already balking at the horror of revisiting that place, even in memory. He draws a deep breath, followed by a shuddering exhale. </p><p>" - all I had was your footstep. Your voice. ...Your scent." His hand briefly leaves its resting place against Jones's middle so he can graze his fingertips over the back of his hand. "Your touch. I clung to these things. I think they might have...tethered me here. Kept me alive in some way. After a while, I started to associate all these little...<em>pieces</em> of you with...comfort. And safety. So maybe you're right, perhaps it isimprinting. But aren't all forms of attraction just some variation of imprinting anyhow? It's the same concept, invokes the same emotions. What does it matter what word you ascribe to it? It's still real."</p><p>Jones doesn't respond right away, though he does press back against Lee, fitting himself a little more snugly into the heat of Lee curled around him. This is reassuring, at least. Lee presses more lazy, sporadic kisses to the back of his neck, mostly out of a compulsive means of comforting himself and to keep his lips warm. Jones doesn't seem to mind. Lee's swelling erection might be the more urgent cause of concern - he knows Jones can feel it nudging insistently against his rear, but he notably doesn't seem to mind that, either. </p><p>"Sorry," Lee breathes. "You're right. Saccharine isn't a becoming color on me."</p><p>"No," Jones says quickly. "I'm - honored you told me. I just couldn't think of an appropriate way to respond."</p><p>"You don't have to. Just get some sleep. You need it." </p><p><em>You deserve it</em>.</p><p><em>I'll be right here if you need me</em>. </p><p>
  <em>I'll keep you safe.</em>
</p><p>So many things he's tempted to say, but he's already been nauseatingly sentimental enough for a lifetime. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Historically, Lee and Burr weren't actually the ones that advocated for Margaret Corbin's soldier's pension, but when I encountered her during the course of my research, I was inspired by her so much that I just needed an excuse to shoehorn her in ¯\_(ツ)_/¯</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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